While Manchester United sauntered off to Barcelona, Howard Pattison had Gillingham on his mind. And so did a small, red man with horns and a pointy tail
When Christopher Marlowe wrote Dr Faustus, he was only concerned with the notion of selling your soul to the devil in return for immense wealth (or whatever it was, it’s years since I saw it). Interestingly, for someone who was bumped off so close to the Millwall football ground, he never speculated on what lengths one might go to in return for a good cup run, or a monster upset against a Premiership outfit, or a late winner in injury time. Think about it for a moment. Exactly what would you sell your soul for?