The Nutmeg News dispatched psychonaut and soccer fan Timothy Redding to Blazercon to take in the convention dedicated towards over exposed British talking heads and their cadre of Bill Simmons-esque worshipers. Here is his report of what he may or may not have experienced.
The first thing you must understand is that I was only on a high THC tincture when I was escorted from the hall after shouting about the theories of promotion only league structures where no one is relegated and the rising in league status is infinite.
I walked into Blazercon an infantile baby to the obsessive compulsive need of American soccer fans to seek acceptance and a sense of history; but I walked out with a head full of ether, psilocybin, and a heavy sprinkling of marijuana a new devotee to the cause of wearing a blazer and talking about soccer. Inside was a wheeling madhouse of tens of people who wanted to be loved because they were talking about nerdy things and worrying about their brand status as they figured out the correct way to lust after Rebecca Lowe that would not lead to group recrimination.
We wandered the hallways together seeking a new power source for our love after the great unplugging from what we typically call life and I found a way to sneak a capsule into my mouth of pure DMT that I lovingly stowed in a small vitamin-E bottle that I carried in my branded over the shoulder bag. The drugs took hold as I carefully looked for the floating face of Ray Hudson in the shuddering quivering masses in front of me.
Life become tolerable as the auditory hallucinations gained hold and everywhere I walked the pronunciation of the word Derby became Darby. The Mushrooms moved fast at this point and I became very aware of trails and contrails and many people walking around in kits from Europe. Everyone was Jack Wilshire and everyone was Sergio Aguero. No one was James McClean.
My god, the mental aspect of trying to find sanity here became difficult as it was very clear that everyone had dressed for inside jokes. People wearing funny hats, small dolls, and all initialed with GFOP which means exactly nothing unless you are a Blazer-Fan at which point it becomes your mantra that you kneel to and pray extolling the great faith of your time, that without it there is no love or truth or great blazer in the sky.
As the feeling of overwhelming presence left me, I was left costing on an easy high and finding the middle ground. It was at this point the shouting became very clear and I was asked to leave as I was upsetting the Everton superfans from Bushwick in the tri-corner, three musketeers hats.
Heaven help us all.