The Untimely Demise of Sebastien Coso

Something a little different this week - instead of the usual claptrap progress reports, we delve deep into the heart of the infamous and almost sarcastically named "MightyOrns Recovery Department". Enjoy.

Be Careful What You Wish For

A thin shaft of sunlight cuts through the darkness of the silent room, briefly illuminating the scene before even the mighty Sun loses its courage and ducks cowardly behind the barred window. You cannot, to be fair, blame it.

Had our faithful star remained a bit longer it might have brought some sorely-needed warmth into the soul of the hero of this sorry tale, one Sebastien Coso, affectionately known as "Seb" to his former team-mates. Once, days ago - although it seems like months to his tortured mind - he was able to struggle, albeit pitifully, twisting and turning on his fleabitten mattress, the desperate moaning that escaped his mouth not getting further than the triple-locked, double bolted iron door. Now, even with the sound of studded boots on concrete clattering daily past his cell, he's just waiting for the end.

Seb gathers the last vestiges of his once-boundless strength and rolls over to face the rough brick wall. His brain can barely comprehend what his eyes see, a Herculean effort needed even to keep them open. In barely legible writing, scratched out by what appears to be human finger-nails, is:

Day 137. Can barely move. Matron reckons I'll be out by Tuesday. If I'm not dead by then she's shooting me herself. Wish I hadn't volunteered to take that penalty.

They say health and safety regulations have taken things too far these days, but at MightyOrns football club, Benphase rules with a fist full of steel and a mouth full of poorly-thought out metaphors. Political correctness? Bollocks to it.