I struggle to think of valid reason that, assuming that these journalists know what I know, they would opt to not investigate. The amateurs one might forgive but the professionals sully the name “journalist” if they do ignore what they know.

Assuming they know it. They may not and I may indeed be the finest investigative journalist in the world. Somehow I doubt it.

A photograph cropped with filters.

The best written section, in my opinion, is the paragraph:

Having tolerated some early abuse, an increasingly upset Christie had been the subject of some very insulting and vulgar voicemails. One called him a Cockney C**t, which at least raised a booming North of the Border laugh, but really there was nothing funny.

I’ll tell you all a story and it might make me seem a bit wet behind the ears but so be it. I got that copy of London Calling when I was, I think, 17 from Wax Museum records in Bradford.

It was pretty beat up when I got it but that was part of the charm I think, that and it was pretty cheap. I am not sure now what attracted me to it. I had heard of The Clash and maybe it was the Beats International baseline on Guns of Brixton that got me in. I read Melody Maker a lot and I’m sure they must have talked about it.

Its a pretty dense album, lot to chew over, but I really got a lot out of Rudie Can’t Fail (although not at the time, had to wait until I was unemployed for that to ring true) and right now I’m listening to Lost In The Supermarket and “feeling it”

Anyway when I got the album home, down the spine of it, I discovered what I now know to be a Joss Stick but at the time I had no idea of. Something told me though that is was contraband and needed to be kept secret. So the next time the house was alone I furtively opened by album, dropped the needle and started to try find a use for this item.

It did not smell, it could not be crushed, but perhaps it could be lit and it could. It gave out a not pleasant smell but perhaps it needed to be inhaled more closely. I surrounded my mouth around it but it felt like it would burn, I put it under my nose and smelt the burning of my nasal hairs. It fizzled out.

“Drugs,” I murmured, “are overrated.”

(Photo of Mr Josh Wynne taken by Miss F r itton at one of the No Hands nights I DJ.)

The No Hands zine has been redesigned for a consistent look throughout the articles and part of that look is a picture of a Wolf with a Gerry Adams beard.

What then does one write about a football club when the results on the pitch are secondary for those in the boardroom to other concerns? What does one write about when Player A being picked over Player B and you suspect that it is for reasons other than their ability on the field? When you suspect the reasons are sinister, and in some cases sinister in the extreme?

I was proud, as creator of BfB, to have it follow Bradford City for twelve years but Bradford City — my Bradford City — is lost in the self-interest of people who profess to protect the club but in my opinion do not. People are prepared — without missing a heartbeat — to barefaced lie? People who will become litigious not seeking to win, but to out-muscle? At what point does one look at what one once loved and see only darkness, greed and dishonesty and say no more?

In the sea of misery that are football club websites BfB was never about negativity, but now that is all Bradford City is about and I have no idea how someone who knew what I knew would turn a blind eye and carry on writing, and so I acquiesce to those who can, at least for now.

Photograph, as used in No Hands magazine.

The Skeleton Swordsman