hintonsboots

I have always liked PW but at one stage I passed over to the just about had enough of this side of the argument after a negative spell but never stopped supporting and wanting us to win. But then I stopped doing the matchday prediction thread and Adams was signed. Not sure which had greatest effect! 
With the injuries he has had, especially to forward players, PW and his team have had a brilliant run-in. Hope we get the dream end next week with a win. Saw some idiot post thanks for promotion now bye bye on twitter. Words fail me.  On the injuries front couple of weeks ago heard a radio discussion on EPL and how many coaches were linking increase in certain injuries to the additional time being played and general delays in games this season. Sure this will be discussed more
 
Should have stuck with my initial view of PW that he is just what we needed post admin. Looking forward to him being the boss next season wherever we are. 

We have to, and will, try to beat Carlisle. Hopefully by several goals, and hopefully it will effectively be over by half time.

You will be if you get defibrillated mate.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

Derby: Clowes warned by EFL pitch invasion independent disciplinary commission that a points deduction will be considered at both Cambridge Utd and Pride Park, should fans encroach. Three man panel of Parry, Gibson, Couhig to oversee punishment. More in paper tomorrow. #reluctantnicko.

He strikes me as being a volatile character, capable of astonishing lapses in concentration but also brilliant saves.
His unpredictability is probably the thing which has held him back.
Some of his kicking today was unfathomable but his one-handed save was instinctive and impressive.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

Sounds like a rare entry in my school report.

You will be if you get defibrillated mate.

You will be if you get defibrillated mate.

You will be if you get defibrillated mate.

Top man and a World class player 

Ugly, untidy, but better than nothing.
Coincidentally, my wife’s description of me.