4 September 2009


I have been pointed in the direction of a new football blog, it's oozes class and decorum, yet the contributors follow some real rotters of football clubs.

It's called Paperback Mitre, you should check it out.

Mitre's remind us of footballs in our youth. In the mid-90s all you could get for under a fiver was a Mitre. They would look the business when you got out of the Sport & Ski in Churchill Square with the bad boy, but a few kick abouts and it's lack of quality began to tell. Firstly the gloss would rub off, then the stitching would start to expose itself - cutting your forehead on contact. Eventually it would be a rag of a thing, yet it's knack of holding shape and having an ace bounce meant it had legendary status amongst boys, the owner of course would be king.

The best bit, and also the significant end for the ball, was when the stitching came free and a little orange abscess would poke out. This was the bladder, and eventually the scruffy ball would give birth to it's crazy bright offspring. Once the original skin was shed, much merriment was had playing with the bladder alone. It's flight was unknown, it's flexibility had no boundaries.

TSLR plays homage to the Mitre ball.

Oh, and here's the website ... right here.

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