As the referee starts the match, Venus will be travelling through Uranus. This will be an uncomfortable period for everyone involved but in particular for somebody watching the match on a black and white pocket television in Crewe, who at that moment, will remember they’re still wearing the cardboard inserts in their shirt collar. Embarrassing.
I predict that quarter of an hour into the match a child will be born somewhere on Google Maps and his name shall be Nathan, but when he reaches his teenage years, friends shall call him Pizza Face. He will either go on to work in finance, probably for an insurance company specialising in coleslaw, or he’ll manufacture novelty plastic breasts at home. Interestingly, his firstborn shall be called Jambon.
During half time, I predict that someone in Greenwich will get hiccups whilst sipping Irn Bru in a conservatory not unlike my Nan’s, God rest her soul. She’s not dead, I’m just hedging my bets.
Just after the second half kicks off, a slightly racist Octogenarian in Leeds will realise that she and her husband are accidentally wearing each other’s false teeth. Because one of them is a vegetarian and the other is an amateur One Direction fan, this will cause them to both throw up.
With minutes to go before the end of normal play, a nervous guy called Ramone will get stopped by someone he knows as he dashes to the toilet mid-way through a first date with Wendy, who he’s very keen on. Worried that Wendy will think he’s taking so long because he’s having a poo, Ramone will rush straight back to the table after chatting to his friend so as not to waste more time. As a result, Ramone will wet his pants and Wendy will dump him. The cosmic climate suggests he’ll go on to marry someone who’s appeared on Jeremy Kyle.
As for the result of tonight’s match, I have no idea whatsoever. Who’s playing?
Magical Keith is available for private readings but they must be before sunset as his ‘sobriety bracelet’ means he can’t go out after 6pm. He accepts cash only and it must have been sterilised in wine from the Douro region of Portugal. If you’re still interested in a private reading, you’re a fool.
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