Who will Oldham be playing the day you die?

[oafc-j]

Tuesda 4th December 2084

 

Huddersfeild Town V Oldham Athletic

 

To win the league/

 

Oldham go 1 - 0 down to poor defending by Weinst

 

2 - 0 Hullington 40 yard screamer

 

10 minutes to go Huddersfield go 3 - 0 up oldham fans are leaving

 

the spirit lived on i kept the faith and stayed

 

to my imagination Huoghese puts one in after coming out of jail

 

Tayloring scores to make it 3-2 is there still hope?

 

latics need a win

 

Eardlingho puts one past Hudders Keeper

 

2 minutes added on Davids scores

 

3-4 to oldham

 

oldham win the league it all got to much to me and i faint

[mastap]

2017, we go on a pre-season tour to georgia, and the russians kill me! poisoning me and sending me away on a plane! (we lose every match there aswell and are playing sunday league, due to city getting ridiculously rich owners and seriously adding to the "stolen fans" the scum have already taken from oldham! Gates revenues fell so low, we sold up and started playing our home matches on the local tip. which resulted in allot being the only have decent player willing to stay!)

[rudemedic]

Sunderland in Nov 2070. Being a bit doddery I don't normally drive but due to there being no more buses that can take me there I do to watch the team I've always supported but now don't go to (my kids have long since left home and can't take me). I loose control of my Volkswagen Polo mark 120 on a fast bend on the M690 (the A690 goes between Durham and Sunderland) and plough into a tree made out of concrete (wood is too expensive to be wasted on trees).

Edited September 3, 2008 by rudemedic

[Nervous_Tic]

February 17th 2047, we are playing an exhibition match against Chennai-Madras Sk8rs at home in our recently finished MicrO2 Sponsored New Boundary Rainbow Multiplex. The match is held to raise funds for credit-card-strapped United of Personchester, who were hit by the far eastern economic recession after their efforts to relocate to The People's Republic of Tibet, and their credit purchase of Cambodian world cup winning footballer of the year, Jose Al-McGuinness.

 

After attending the unveiling of a statue of Lord Alan Hardy outside the club's own Internet Cafe (which is where the club shop used to be, and specialises in Fan-Player Social Networking, plus online merchandising), I settle down into my 5-person Spectator-Viewing Pod (of which there are 10,000 across 6 tiers, each complete with holographic instant replay screen, chant karaoke, atmosphere amplifier, and CCTV) in the Chadderton Hoverway End. Today I'm sharing the pod with my trophy wife; my mate John who is an unemployed former steward; long-time club ambassador David Eyres; and my guest of the day, Head of the Association of Football, Sir Deane Smalley. I have paid for John's ticket to the game, as is common courtesy in society these days after all stewards were made redundant after the installation of the pods with CCTV, despite the stewards' strike of 2039.

 

During the build up to the game myself, David, and Sir Deane talk football over a drink of Happy-Coke Zero Colour. We lament the recent revelation that Neal Eardley is a below average coach, after his sacking as Wales manager. We also reflect on the standards of football punditry these days, commenting on Match of the Day presenter Craig Davies and Skytanta News pundit Rio Ferdinand as examples.

 

The game kicks off and we are treated to our new left winger Chris Taylor III, running rings around the defence at speeds of up to 50kph, juggling the ball on his knee. As a shot whistles past the laser upright (modern day equivalent of woodwork) the 'OOOOH' rackets through the amplifier, accompanied by a hysterical yelp from my wife. It takes me a moment to realise that the yelp was more in relation to the single gunshot wound that had suddenly appeared in my chest.

 

As I slump down off the club badge-diamond encrusted armchair my mind races to one point: I know exactly who did this. Forget the deranged fan of my literary work, for which I was famous. Forget the jilted ex-lover who only came second in the Miss Greater Rochdale, which had been won by my now wife. Oh I knew who it was all right. A former business partner, I'd pushed him and threatened to expose his secret funding for enemy Martian nuclear weapons development. As my trophy wife put her arms around my dying body, and as I saw David, Sir Deane and John looking at me perplexed from across the pod, I couldn't help but give a rye smile. The previous thought gave way to my life flashing before my eyes. No, no no no, this can wait. I tried to fight it back, I must reveal who is behind this.... before....... it's....... too....... *gasp*

[leeslover]

2052, I get drunk on the way to a third division game away at Mansfield. Wake up on a train in Exeter at 1.30AM, remember that Mark promised to meet us at 11.30 Saturday morning from the Space terminal at Euston, and expire with the thought that he'll still blame it on me.

[OldhamSheridan]

There seem to be some very optimistic people on here.

 

I think we should play 'nearest to actual date of death wins'. 10 post mortem cyber pints each to the winner?

 

 

 

Edit: No suicides to collect winnings.

Edit 2: No coming back as a ghost and haunting someone into an early grave to protect your lead either.

Edited September 4, 2008 by OldhamSheridan

[help_shiny]

February 17th 2047, we are playing an exhibition match against Chennai-Madras Sk8rs at home in our recently finished MicrO2 Sponsored New Boundary Rainbow Multiplex. The match is held to raise funds for credit-card-strapped United of Personchester, who were hit by the far eastern economic recession after their efforts to relocate to The People's Republic of Tibet, and their credit purchase of Cambodian world cup winning footballer of the year, Jose Al-McGuinness.

 

After attending the unveiling of a statue of Lord Alan Hardy outside the club's own Internet Cafe (which is where the club shop used to be, and specialises in Fan-Player Social Networking, plus online merchandising), I settle down into my 5-person Spectator-Viewing Pod (of which there are 10,000 across 6 tiers, each complete with holographic instant replay screen, chant karaoke, atmosphere amplifier, and CCTV) in the Chadderton Hoverway End. Today I'm sharing the pod with my trophy wife; my mate John who is an unemployed former steward; long-time club ambassador David Eyres; and my guest of the day, Head of the Association of Football, Sir Deane Smalley. I have paid for John's ticket to the game, as is common courtesy in society these days after all stewards were made redundant after the installation of the pods with CCTV, despite the stewards' strike of 2039.

 

During the build up to the game myself, David, and Sir Deane talk football over a drink of Happy-Coke Zero Colour. We lament the recent revelation that Neal Eardley is a below average coach, after his sacking as Wales manager. We also reflect on the standards of football punditry these days, commenting on Match of the Day presenter Craig Davies and Skytanta News pundit Rio Ferdinand as examples.

 

The game kicks off and we are treated to our new left winger Chris Taylor III, running rings around the defence at speeds of up to 50kph, juggling the ball on his knee. As a shot whistles past the laser upright (modern day equivalent of woodwork) the 'OOOOH' rackets through the amplifier, accompanied by a hysterical yelp from my wife. It takes me a moment to realise that the yelp was more in relation to the single gunshot wound that had suddenly appeared in my chest.

 

As I slump down off the club badge-diamond encrusted armchair my mind races to one point: I know exactly who did this. Forget the deranged fan of my literary work, for which I was famous. Forget the jilted ex-lover who only came second in the Miss Greater Rochdale, which had been won by my now wife. Oh I knew who it was all right. A former business partner, I'd pushed him and threatened to expose his secret funding for enemy Martian nuclear weapons development. As my trophy wife put her arms around my dying body, and as I saw David, Sir Deane and John looking at me perplexed from across the pod, I couldn't help but give a rye smile. The previous thought gave way to my life flashing before my eyes. No, no no no, this can wait. I tried to fight it back, I must reveal who is behind this.... before....... it's....... too....... *gasp*

 

Isaac Asimov, Arthur C Clarke - eat your heart out.

[leeslover]

There seem to be some very optimistic people on here.

 

I think we should play 'nearest to actual date of death wins'. 10 post mortem cyber pints each to the winner?

Edit: No suicides to collect winnings.

Edit 2: No coming back as a ghost and haunting someone into an early grave to protect your lead either.

I'm banking on the timely introduction of a Tesco's BOGOF offer on their Value Replacement Liver range

[Kingdingaling]

I'm going to live forever so i'm affraid i cannot answer this question.

 

Sincere condolences on you all dying by the way, just thought i'd say it now in case i don't get the chance later in life.

[Diego_Sideburns]

There seem to be some very optimistic people on here.

 

I think we should play 'nearest to actual date of death wins'. 10 post mortem cyber pints each to the winner?

Edit: No suicides to collect winnings.

Edit 2: No coming back as a ghost and haunting someone into an early grave to protect your lead either.

 

Dead funny! LOL

[Diego_Sideburns]

Sincere condolences on you all dying by the way, just thought i'd say it now in case i don't get the chance later in life.

 

Thanks, I appreciate your condolences

 

I didn't specify a year but narrowed it down to the pre-season period, when I'm often 'bored to death' with the football. My Mum is currently in her 99th year, so I'm hoping to be still going strong in the 2040s and I pray that Latics are also alive and kicking.

[martjs]

February 17th 2047, we are playing an exhibition match against Chennai-Madras Sk8rs at home in our recently finished MicrO2 Sponsored New Boundary Rainbow Multiplex. The match is held to raise funds for credit-card-strapped United of Personchester, who were hit by the far eastern economic recession after their efforts to relocate to The People's Republic of Tibet, and their credit purchase of Cambodian world cup winning footballer of the year, Jose Al-McGuinness.

 

After attending the unveiling of a statue of Lord Alan Hardy outside the club's own Internet Cafe (which is where the club shop used to be, and specialises in Fan-Player Social Networking, plus online merchandising), I settle down into my 5-person Spectator-Viewing Pod (of which there are 10,000 across 6 tiers, each complete with holographic instant replay screen, chant karaoke, atmosphere amplifier, and CCTV) in the Chadderton Hoverway End. Today I'm sharing the pod with my trophy wife; my mate John who is an unemployed former steward; long-time club ambassador David Eyres; and my guest of the day, Head of the Association of Football, Sir Deane Smalley. I have paid for John's ticket to the game, as is common courtesy in society these days after all stewards were made redundant after the installation of the pods with CCTV, despite the stewards' strike of 2039.

 

During the build up to the game myself, David, and Sir Deane talk football over a drink of Happy-Coke Zero Colour. We lament the recent revelation that Neal Eardley is a below average coach, after his sacking as Wales manager. We also reflect on the standards of football punditry these days, commenting on Match of the Day presenter Craig Davies and Skytanta News pundit Rio Ferdinand as examples.

 

The game kicks off and we are treated to our new left winger Chris Taylor III, running rings around the defence at speeds of up to 50kph, juggling the ball on his knee. As a shot whistles past the laser upright (modern day equivalent of woodwork) the 'OOOOH' rackets through the amplifier, accompanied by a hysterical yelp from my wife. It takes me a moment to realise that the yelp was more in relation to the single gunshot wound that had suddenly appeared in my chest.

 

As I slump down off the club badge-diamond encrusted armchair my mind races to one point: I know exactly who did this. Forget the deranged fan of my literary work, for which I was famous. Forget the jilted ex-lover who only came second in the Miss Greater Rochdale, which had been won by my now wife. Oh I knew who it was all right. A former business partner, I'd pushed him and threatened to expose his secret funding for enemy Martian nuclear weapons development. As my trophy wife put her arms around my dying body, and as I saw David, Sir Deane and John looking at me perplexed from across the pod, I couldn't help but give a rye smile. The previous thought gave way to my life flashing before my eyes. No, no no no, this can wait. I tried to fight it back, I must reveal who is behind this.... before....... it's....... too....... *gasp*

 

That is brilliant!

[jimsleftfoot]

February 17th 2047, we are playing an exhibition match against Chennai-Madras Sk8rs at home in our recently finished MicrO2 Sponsored New Boundary Rainbow Multiplex. The match is held to raise funds for credit-card-strapped United of Personchester, who were hit by the far eastern economic recession after their efforts to relocate to The People's Republic of Tibet, and their credit purchase of Cambodian world cup winning footballer of the year, Jose Al-McGuinness.

 

After attending the unveiling of a statue of Lord Alan Hardy outside the club's own Internet Cafe (which is where the club shop used to be, and specialises in Fan-Player Social Networking, plus online merchandising), I settle down into my 5-person Spectator-Viewing Pod (of which there are 10,000 across 6 tiers, each complete with holographic instant replay screen, chant karaoke, atmosphere amplifier, and CCTV) in the Chadderton Hoverway End. Today I'm sharing the pod with my trophy wife; my mate John who is an unemployed former steward; long-time club ambassador David Eyres; and my guest of the day, Head of the Association of Football, Sir Deane Smalley. I have paid for John's ticket to the game, as is common courtesy in society these days after all stewards were made redundant after the installation of the pods with CCTV, despite the stewards' strike of 2039.

 

During the build up to the game myself, David, and Sir Deane talk football over a drink of Happy-Coke Zero Colour. We lament the recent revelation that Neal Eardley is a below average coach, after his sacking as Wales manager. We also reflect on the standards of football punditry these days, commenting on Match of the Day presenter Craig Davies and Skytanta News pundit Rio Ferdinand as examples.

 

The game kicks off and we are treated to our new left winger Chris Taylor III, running rings around the defence at speeds of up to 50kph, juggling the ball on his knee. As a shot whistles past the laser upright (modern day equivalent of woodwork) the 'OOOOH' rackets through the amplifier, accompanied by a hysterical yelp from my wife. It takes me a moment to realise that the yelp was more in relation to the single gunshot wound that had suddenly appeared in my chest.

 

As I slump down off the club badge-diamond encrusted armchair my mind races to one point: I know exactly who did this. Forget the deranged fan of my literary work, for which I was famous. Forget the jilted ex-lover who only came second in the Miss Greater Rochdale, which had been won by my now wife. Oh I knew who it was all right. A former business partner, I'd pushed him and threatened to expose his secret funding for enemy Martian nuclear weapons development. As my trophy wife put her arms around my dying body, and as I saw David, Sir Deane and John looking at me perplexed from across the pod, I couldn't help but give a rye smile. The previous thought gave way to my life flashing before my eyes. No, no no no, this can wait. I tried to fight it back, I must reveal who is behind this.... before....... it's....... too....... *gasp*

 

I bet it was Chris Moore (an undead robocop head in jar version of Chris Moore).

 

Damn you Moore, DAMN YOUUUUUU!!!

[monkeykieran]

Oldham wont be about when I die

 

There'll only be 10 teams in business then