For a man sitting in the top 400 of the Fantasy Premier League, Granville has been flapping like Gillian McKeith in an insect house all week. Reports suggest that when news of Cesc Fabregas’s injury came in, he did actually faint. He may even be pregnant.
Granville may have a healthy lead on me then but he’s been lamenting his injury woes and faces the prospect of spending points to repair matters. A perfect time to kick him while he’s down and pull out my Wildcard.
Or so I thought. Since committing to the momentous event with some early evening tinkering while the Scout Picks were forming in my head, I’ve since been body snatched to the extent that tiny football shirts came haunting me in my slumber. When the dog woke us at 4am, it provided the excuse to resume matters. I then spent the next three hours desperately trying to hide the glow of an iPhone under the duvet. Best not to wake her. The only fumbling and tweaking I was interested in at that very moment involved Charles N’Zogbia, Matt Jarvis and a fifth midfield slot.
Has it really come down to this? An almost 40-year-old, depriving himself of sleep, ferreting around with a wireless device desperately trying to avoid contact with his partner for fear of unnecessary distraction.
Chuffed with my team though.
Morning all.
