Carlos The Jackal

It was decreed unto all that on the twentieth day of February, in this nineteenth year of the Barclays Premier League, the one hundred and fifty-seventh Black Country derby would be hosted at the Shrine. It would be the first to be played in the top flight in nearly thirty years, and therefore an event of unimaginable importance throughout the land. And so it was that the Dingle horde sallied forth from the abortive attempt at civilisation that they call home, and journeyed into the Promised Land. They were full of good cheer, and led by the powerful shaman McCarthy (the one who looks a bit like Sam the Eagle off The Muppet Show).

These strange gnomes in orange garb had not triumphed in the Promised Land for many years - in fact, the last time they accomplished such a victory, your humble narrator was busy pursuing a fascination for The Spice Girls which had very little to do with their music - and yet, despite this lengthy record of abject failure, the hopes of the Dingle horde were high. Their frankly annoying optimism was sadly rewarded after some forty minutes of battle, when the one named O'Hara did giveth them the lead with a fierce strike (which, I must admitteth, was actually a pretty impressive goal).

With the fight half-over, the newly-appointed Prophet Hodgson bade our blue and white heroes to return to the field of honour and vanquish their foe. But as the day drew toward a close with no breakthrough in sight, all will and hope seemed to ebbeth away. The eerie and repulsive faces of the Dingle horde shone with glee with each passing minute.

And yet, with bare seconds left between them and ignominy, Hodgson's heroes finally struck. Verily, Mozza the Great did have his shot parried by Wayne the Clumsy, before Carlos Vela did stabbeth home the equaliser. And the worshippers at the Shrine did rejoice, and the Dingle horde did wail, and curl their six-fingered hands into fists of rage. And I did jump around like an absolute loon, until I banged my head on the ceiling.

Praise be to thee, Carlos, for having shown the orange ones yet again how pointless it is for them to try beating us. And feel free to repeateth this performance as often as you like, for ever and ever.

Amen.