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MOB FOOTBALL
EXCERPT FROM TRUE BRITS ©JR DAESCHNER

"Savour the pain, boys! Savour the pain!"

That's easy for him to say. Blandie's lying near the top of the heap, and I'm down at the bottom, squashed by a dozen or more bodies.

Don't squeal like a pig. I can't move, and I'm vaguely aware of groans emanating from the bald heads and buzz cuts around me. My ribs are creaking and my heart, liver and assorted viscera are being squeezed to the point of bursting.

My torso feels like a giblet bag crammed up the rear of a butchered turkey. The coroner will open me up and find nothing but a creamy pâté inside, human foie gras in a skin-and-bones bag.

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