Power Chords

I, Tucker Chump, was a visitor to Wembley last Friday for a game between two disinterested teams in front of howling fans, faces painted with blood and stained with cherished memories. Little stood out, other than the CGI architecture and the crows swooping down from great heights to feed on the dead grass.

But at half-time as I urinated powerfully I could not avoid the truth any longer. The two men either side of me had clearly been eating asparagus as the stench of their foaming piss was more than enough evidence. This is some change from the old Wembley, where the piss smelt of a simpler era, one when men were men and vegetables were processed and tinned.

We have lost this forever. Mourn it.