‘The law is not a buffet at your local Harvester — you can’t pick and choose the laws to which you intend to adhere and those you will flout.’
These wise words from a Spectator journalist were publicised by the RSPCA on transfer deadline day, during their battle with a cold hearted fiend and his poor unsuspecting dog.
It caught my eye as I trawled twitter on the most distracting day of the football season, desperate for one morsel of goodness like a starved Pug.
As tick followed tock, our pigment paled and our croup began to crumble.
Like the injured, helpless breed defended by the good guys, we summon up one last drop of energy to stifle a dry yelp to our cruel owner.
The one who picks and chooses which laws to adhere to.
We limp towards his scuffed, toecapped shoes, wagging our tails like we’ve never been hurt before and paw gently at his ankles for a drop of affection.
Steve Morgan knew better, jolting sideways and booting us in the tummies we were so desperate he’d tickle.
Another transfer deadline day and a final crumb of hope snatched away like a roughhouse dog owner.
As Dean Saunders expressed his glee at his phone being off at the very time we all wanted it on, the realisation finally dawned that Steve Morgan couldn’t give a shit.
The man who promised the earth on the centre spot in 2010, yet refuses to pay for a player capable of playing on it in 2013.
While WBA moan about Peace, Spurs whinge about Levy, an ever dwindling group of mistreated Wolves fans have barely the fortitude to muster up a bark.
The potent Natalie Sawyer barely raises an erection these days, as her bountiful yellow glory fades to grey.
Where Jim White’s glib repertoire once raised a smile, only grimaces can now be summoned.
‘Hoops fans cock-a-Hoop with Hooper,’ he droned.
Back on twitter, when asked if he was staying at Wolves, Kevin Doyle graced an emaciated audience with: ‘It looks like it.’
In a season where just one jot of good news would be welcomed like Steve Bull’s 307th goal, Steve Morgan sits in the Harvester on transfer deadline day.
He salivates over his 12in steak as we slowly starve to death.