The Quentin X File : Julius Caesar & 1984

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.