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Friends, Boltonians, Englishmen
I come here to bury Madine, not to praise him.
The football that men play lives after them
The good is oft interred with their bones
So let it be with Madine. Some noble Bolton fans
Hath told you Madine was shite
If it were so, it were a grievous fault
And grievously hath Madine answered it.
Here, under leave of Manning and the rest
For Manning is an honourable man
So are they all, honourable men
Come I to speak in Madine's defence
He was a donkey, but a faithful and honest donkey
But some say he was shite
And they are honourable men
He hath missed many sitters at The Macron
Whose misses hath cost us dear
Did this, in Madine, seem shite?
When that the fans have cried, Madine has wept
Strikers should be made of sterner stuff
Yet there are some who say he was shite
And they are honourable men.
You all did see that, probably against Bristol Rovers
He was thrice presented with an open goal
Which he did thrice refuse; was this really shite?
Yet some say he was a shite striker
And they are honourable men.
And I speak not to disprove what they have said.
But here I am to speak what I do know.
We all do love him now, not without cause.
So no cause should withhold you then, to cheer for him.
Oh judgement, you were probably right in the mid part of the season
When he had lost his reason. Bear with me,
My heart lies on the pitch there with Madine
And I will not pause until promotion.
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He gazed up at the enormous face.
Six years it had taken him to learn what kind of talent was hidden beneath the aimless pointing and shouting.
O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast!
Two Joseph Holt-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose.
But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished.
He had won the victory over himself.
He loved Darren Pratley.