Counting the Days 'Til Roland Duchatelet Sells Charlton Athletic

Day 1207.
He's still here.
Oh fuck...

Day 1209.
Still here.
Fuck....

Day 1210.
He's still here.
Ohhhhhhhhhh fuck.....

Arsenetatters said:

3blokes said:

Day 1210.
He's still here.
Ohhhhhhhhhh fuck.....

Orgasmic!

Still undisclosed

Day 1212 and 1213.

It's Saturday morning, the B.O is in his shed reflecting on the last 9 months.
Finally, he can hold the emotion in no longer.
" AAAARGGHHH! I'm still here!! OH FUCK!!!"
In a rage, he kicks a box of rivets, and shakes his fist in frustration at a tin of 3" nails.
He has tried his best to sell de kloob, but as he so eloquently now screams:
" NO ONE WANTS TO FUCKING BUY IT OFF ME!!!"
Just then Mrs B.O. enters with his morning coffee and little amaretto biscuit, and hears this cry of anguish.
" Now...that's not quite true, is it, dear ..." she says wearily.
" WHY DOES EVERYONE NOT UNDERSTAND ANYTHING?? WHY WON'T SOME MUG TAKE THIS SHITTY SHIT CLUB OFF MY BLOODY HANDS!!??"
"Well, darling, it's because you are asking a LOT of money for it, and you want to keep the training ground, the stadium, the merchandising, control of team selection, the catering franchise, the TV money and you want Daisy Donut to still be in charge. Basically, you want someone to pay 40 million quid to you for a match ball!"
The B.O stares at her in amazement.
" Fuck off! Who said anything about throwing in a match ball!!??" he says indignantly.
His wife gives a big sigh.
" Face facts, dear. You've fucked it. Everyone hates you. You haven't got a clue about football. You won't get your money back, unless you can somehow find gold bullion buried under the bogs in the West stand. And while we're at it, you really are fucking rubbish at dancing." she says.
" What do I do?" says the B.O.
"Well, there's only one thing for it. Sell de kloob at a realistic asking price and stop being such a selfish, egotistical knob about something you really know nothing about. Otherwise, you'll be here for another year."
The B.O stares at her aghast.
"What, here for ANOTHER year??!!" He gasps, kicking out furiously at the lawnmower. "OHHHHH FUCK!!!"
And for once, maybe we all are in tune with the thinking of this car crash of an owner.
But it's a fleeting moment of accord with the effing Visionary, because for all the wrong reasons he is STILL here.
Oh fuck indeed.....

Day 1215.
Perhaps we need a Magna Charlton.
Anyway he's still here.
Oh fuck....

Day 1217.
He's still here.
Oh fuck....

Day 1219 and 1220.

It is Saturday morning and the B.O is having one last final coffee and little amaretto biscuit before it is time to head down to the crypt for the summer.
Thank God for a bit of relief! he thinks to himself, for he's feeling pretty weary after another long season of working feverishly to obtain a no ambition mid table finish and piss everybody off in the process. It hasn't been a simple task, but somehow he has made it look easy.
But now, at last he could get a bit of kip and dream about building flats and hotels in foreign lands, and finally he could take a breather from doing those tiresome little tasks like pretending he was watching a live stream every week.
Yes, it was great that the season was finally over and there was nothing to be done for a couple of months until, come September, he could wake up refreshed and sack someone.
Luckily, of course, his crypt is heavily fortified and he is confident there is little chance those bastards from CARD, (whatever that is), will find its location and wake him up from his well deserved slumber.
Well I don't think that CARD ( whatever that is ) will be rushing to do that anyway. But whatever, howsoever, and notwithstanding and forthwith, let us leave this glorious B.O to his own dim, shadowy retreat for now, and let's hope that the summer somehow brings back some sunshine once more to the place of OUR dreams.
He's still here.
Oh fuck.....

Day 1223.
He's still here, like the moon. A cold lump of rock.
Oh fuck....