A Rallying Cry

[crodonilson]

It's got to the point of no return for our beloved club, we really can't afford to lose any more ground on those in front and desperately need to claw our way back into this relegation dogfight.

It looks like we will be taking a fantastic following tomorrow of somewhere between 2 and 3 thousand people, incredible support in terms of numbers but lets give them all our support and cheer them on to what could be a season turning victory.

I still believe..........



Keep the Faith

 

[HP Seagull]

Love the optimism! Here's to victory

 

[bellsize seagull]

class...gutted not there, Hereford awaits for me !
hope we have something to build on...
enjoy it boys :yahoo:

 

[Keeping The Dream Alive.]

For once Crodonilson, I agree.

 

[The Grockle]

I shall be there tommorow with two newbies one Tottenham fan and one Man utd fan. I'm confident of a win a maybe two new fans come 5 o'clock!

After some potent drinking games on the train from east Croydon we should be in good spirit to support the lads. Come on!

 

[Notters]

we are staying up!

 

[crodonilson]

Sounds like another bumper away audience tomorrow. Lets cheer the boys onto league one survival and give Russell and the boys the backing they deserve.



Keep the faith

 

[coventrygull]

I think its going to be a great atmosphere tomorrow.

 

[TWOCHOICEStom]

It will be an amazing day out... then we'll lose 3-0....

only kidding!!
SEEEEEEEEAAAGULLLLLS!!!

 

[Dandyman]

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

 

[coventrygull]

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

Thats the spirit.




I can't wait. I will be on my way in a few hours