Fenrir and the Celestial Arc

The earth travels along a perfect trajectory, a celestial arc around the sun. This arc is vital to all life on our planet, maintaining the right distance to keep our fragile ecosystem intact and functioning. Scientists, sailors, philosophers and religious mystics have all marvelled at the complex factors that created the basis for life in our solar system, so intricate in its design and so beautifully executed.

The Egyptians built pyramids in such a way as to precisely simulate the stars and the Milky Way, to pay tribute to the gods and their creation of the universe. It may seem glib to say so, but just after five minutes into the game against Sheffield United, Ruben Neves created his own celestial arc from 25 yards. A godly hammer of a right foot that caressed the ball and coaxed it to follow the earth as it orbits the sun, like a comet of doom for those in opposition but a majestic moment of magic for the followers. And like the late afternoon sun it cast golden light upon Molineux and the crowd was truly enraptured.

Sheffield Untied.

I have some sympathy with most teams who've visited Molineux this season. Except for Villa. Fuck Villa. For the rest it must be like my own trials and tribulations. Whether it's age or medication or a mix of both, I don't know, but watching teams come to the Mol and struggle reminds me of trying to have a wank in my mid forties; 90 minutes of frustration and all for nothing except lingering exasperation. Nottingham Forest was a glory moment for an away side, like my own personal victory, it left me exhausted and regretful and oddly full of self-doubt.

Our recent blip brought the bravado out in 'other' fans who've been desperate to have something justifiably bad to say about us, especially the Villa mob. Pride of the Midlands, my arse. Pride of Aston at best. It's not 1982 anymore, Villa, with your exotic sounding name that conjures notions of palm trees and white walled, terracotta roofed Mediterranean mansions overlooking crystal blue oceans. Villa, you're nothing now. Villa, a lie in its own name, not a Mediterranean dream home but a slum on the side of an ugly Spaghetti Junction, slap bang in the middle of the country. Stop lying to yourselves you fucking idiots.

But Saturday, what jubilation, what magnificence...

I had the most assured feeling before kick off that we would win and win comfortably. The Blades have been on a bad run but they're still a decent side and they came to Wolverhampton with a false belief that they could beat us because they'd already done so earlier this season. “Let's see how you lot do against 11 men”, I repeated to them on various interweb forums. And how we did. It was glorious, it filled me with a glow that not even my first fondle with Vanessa Perry round the back of the school hard courts could match.

The movement, the fluidity, the precision. It's art and engineering at its finest, but there's a deeper and darker ethos behind it all. The wolf pack is a master of deception. It lets you play around with the ball, watches you closely, letting you gather confidence as you stroke the thing around unchallenged. Lee Evans passed sideways and backwards, never forwards, looking busy and confident all at once yet unaware how ineffective he was being, so too the rest of them. Blades, as cutting as rubber comedy knives wielded by clowns at a macabre kids party. And then the trap was sprung, the ball stolen and an inch perfect lofted pass released a flurry of gnashing teeth and snarling runs that tore the Sheffield United defence asunder. Neves, Doherty, Cavaleiro, Costa, Jota, flicks and tricks and a control that governments only dream of having over a largely somnambulent populace.

The Blades were bent and broken and desperation set in. They knew the game was up, they knew they'd been proven unworthy and the silly niggling tackles and challenges set in, nothing too dirty, but enough to be noticeable.

A grinning Nuno watched on, his revenge mission completed in the first half yet there was more to come and more joy for the faithful pack to cherish. An expectant crowd bayed for Afobe's return to action but they had to wait. With dignity and out of respect for a player who's done so well for us this season, Bonatini was brought on to replace the tiring trickster, Costa, who each game looks every bit more like the player we fell in love with last season.

A twist and a turn and it's nearly three. That came soon enough but in ugly circumstances. Our marauder and plunderer, the dancing Jota who mesmerises the ball and opposition defences alike was cruelly flattened by the onrushing Moore who duly received his marching orders. Job almost done. The resulting free kick pinged off the flat head of Leon Clarke and into the back of the net. Now it's job done, two birds felled with one celestially arcing rock. Blades punished, Clarke punished, Wolves triumphant.

The introduction of Afobe merely added to the celebrations, a golden son come home but in a different light this time. Knowing full well he's no longer the big fish his nerves were evident as he stepped onto the hallowed semi-astro turf, his name ringing around the stands and out onto the universe. “Afobe, we love you and there's nothing to forgive. Bring the magic.” And he almost did.

Of course, Wolves are damned if they win and damned if they lose. Win and they throw the money we've spent back at us, lose and we should be winning with the money we've spent. Ugly thing, jealousy, isn't it?

The Villa crew still insist that they're coming for us. Well, no Villa, be prepared because Fenrir and the Celestial Arc are coming for you.

Tags: #wolverhamptonwanderersfc, #wolvesfc, #theblades, #astonvilla, #sheffieldunited, #rubenneves, #diogojota, #benikafobe, #ivancavaleiro, #deigocosta, #thechampionship, #efl, #football, #fenrir, #mysticism, #magic