It was just after my third bourbon, sometime around 4 AM on Tuesday morning, when a sudden, god awful hammering sound on the apartment front door disturbed me from my writing. For a moment, I froze in sheer, paralyzing terror. The entire front room was littered with evidence of a desperate, alcoholic, drug addict battling writer’s block and currently directing a one-woman orgy of excessive consumption. My god, I realized, even if the multi-colored forest of half empty booze containers strewn about virtually every flat surface in the apartment wasn’t enough to arouse suspicion – the coffee table alone was covered in enough pills, powder and dank to put me in a fucking steel box for the next thirty years! Had one of my nosey neighbors called the police over that goddamn monkey again, or was this visit more sinister in nature? For a few seconds that felt like agonizing hours, I found myself nervously hovering about the room, flailing my hands wildly over top of incriminating evidence before turning towards the next horrible disaster area inside my tiny apartment – desperately caught like a frightened rodent, between the urgent need to avoid prison and the pressing lack of time to actually do anything to save my wretched hide. Momentarily, the pounding of fist on wood continued, louder this time however and accompanied by a sound I can only describe as the death wail of a wounded buffalo in the loneliest, emptiest fucking canyon the world has ever known. Mutherfucking police don’t make that sound old girl, I thought as I grabbed my pistol and headed towards the door, practically about to piss all over myself in terror.
“Go away you junkie fuck, we don’t want any” I called through the door, before adding “I will absolutely shoot you fucking dead on the doorstep and go back to my bourbon – ain’t nothing sweet in here mutherfucker!”
Instantly, the pounding stopped; but only moments later, the awful, pitiable wailing began anew and with far greater intensity. Someone or something was dying on my front doorstep loudly enough to wake the entire fucking block and it was only a matter of moments before one of my bloody neighbors would call the real goddamn police to investigate. Wait, I thought – did I know that voice somehow? With only seconds to consider my actions and my subconscious mind busy adding up all of the years I would face in prison if an actual cop showed up, I swung the door open and pointed my pistol directly at – nothing. There, lying on the ground before me, curled up in a fetal position and sobbing like a wino who’d run out of Thunderbird, was a fat man dressed in stonewashed jorts and a Mike Furrey Lions jersey that I recognized immediately.
“Jesus Caesar, what the fuck are you doing lying around on my doorstep at four o’clock in the fucking morning man” I asked as I helped my sad, inebriated friend up from the ground and into the apartment proper. To say that Caesar was a mess would be an understatement akin to saying that Mike Huckabee has a mild dislike for homosexuals; he positively reeked of cheap booze, his forearms were covered in tiny streaks of drying blood almost up to his elbows and his normally impeccable coiffure was all over the place, showing recent evidence of some god damn lunatic ripping fistfuls of hair out of his scalp. Had he been mugged, I wondered as I led his blubbering two hundred and fifty pound frame teetering over towards the coach. Finally, when I could take no more suspense, I yelled out “Good god man, tell me what the fuck just happened?”
“They did it again Nina. Were you watching?! Oh fucking hell they did it to us again,” he cried out between heaving sobs, throwing his hands in the air like a Baptist priest delivering a fire and brimstone service to a room full of un-repentant death row inmates. “Did you see? The ball, the guy, he batted the ball on purpose, the fucking ball Nina… endzone, the fucking ref was starting right at it, oh my fucking god he was looking right fucking at it!”
Caesar’s words trailed off into a guttural moan of such resounding pain that even my shriveled, blackened heart was moved for a moment. I knew then that he’d been drinking and smashing things since the Lions had lost to the Seahawks and yet another unspeakably heinous, game-deciding error by an entire crew of NFL officials. I had watched the whole trav-sham-mockery on live television myself, only a few fucking hours before. There would be no need to call the police now; Caesar’s wounds, like those of virtually all Lions fans, anywhere on this goddamn stinking rock we all inhabit, were self inflicted with just a little extra help from the National Fuckball League – again.
“I know Caesar,” I replied, sitting beside him and gathering up the necessary supplies to roll the spawn-mother of all fucking spliffs to share between us. With any luck, I could coax him into a calm, drug-induced nap while I got back to finishing my picks column for the week – before my editor sent a hired gang of goddamn coke-snorting Jawas round to beat me fucking senseless with steel pipes for missing a deadline.
“You know?! Are you fucking kidding me? Did you watch that game Nina? You know what happened and you aren’t even fucking angry,” he railed, his voice rising with the palpable rage of a man drunk on a combination of literal booze and staggering disappointment for the umpteenth time in his life. “Did you bet on the Seahawks? You did! You fucking bet on the Seahawks and you were rooting against us the entire time, you bitch! I knew you were a sick fuck Nina, I knew it; but what kind of fucking Lions fan can watch that game and not be angry right now?!”
I sighed deeply; clearly this operation was going to take more than a single joint – at least if I didn’t want my distraught, drunken friend to cave in my fucking skull out of some pathetic, misguided loyalty to our mutually depressing football team, that is.
“The kind that likes to think she can see the forest for the goddamn trees Caesar” I replied warily, my hand resting on a half-empty, cut glass Crown Royal bottle just in case his mood continued to turn towards hostility and aggression. “Yes, I bet on the Seahawks, and your Slappy goddamn ass will be happy to know I lost fucking money doing so when that defensive touchdown broke the cover. I was rooting against the Lions all right Caesar, but not because of a bloody bet you fool,” I said, standing up as calmly as I could but still making sure I was now clearly out of arm’s reach. The confused, hurt look in Caesar’s eyes however told me that there would be no need for physical combat this evening; my friend had tapped out into a world of Honolulu blue regret, pain and misery.
“Look, the simple truth of the matter is that the Lions are putrid in every conceivable sense of the word and at every level of the organization Caesar. Sure, the fucking refs hate us, the line can’t block a doorway and fat Matty Stafford is a goddamn bust being paid like he’s Peyton fucking Manning – but you and I both fucking know that’s not the only thing wrong with the Lions. The Coach is a mannequin, the offensive coordinator sucks elephant cock and the GM is a stunted pinhead who’s driven the team into salary cap hell to keep marginal starters while letting a transcendent athlete like Suh walk away for absolutely fucking nothing – entirely because of his bloody incompetence. That isn’t the worst part of all though, is it Caesar? No the worst fucking part is that the Ford family knows precisely sweet fuck all about football and couldn’t give a flying fucking crap about how awful the Lions are so long as the team continues to make goddamn money!”
Tears began to stream down Caesar’s chubby face as I laid out the whole, awful truth before him. Of course, none of it was anything he didn’t already know; the single most wretched aspect of Lions fandom has always been knowing deep inside your heart, that eventually all hope will falter and the fucking team would choke again because the entire organization is comprised entirely of fail – the added subplot of incompetent officials snatching defeat from the jaws of victory even when the Lions actually did manage to almost win a game was simply icing on the proverbial mutherfucking cake at this point and we both knew it.
“This is a team that has had a sum fucking total of three general managers in the last twenty-five years who cumulatively have produced exactly zero fucking playoff wins over that same time,” I continued. “Clearly my friend, simply losing isn’t going to save us – we need a new coach, a new GM and a new quarterback immediately and the only goddamn way we’re going to get all three is to keep losing in such a ridiculously, absurdly embarrassing fashion that the fucking Ford family becomes ashamed of the product they put on the field, literally forcing them to take drastic action. We’re in it for the long haul Caesar, the massive rebuild, and that means things are going to have to get much, much worse from here sir. The team was 0-3 before this my friend, and Monday’s loss means we now have the inside track on the number one overall draft pick next year so long as these assholes can just keep losing. Don’t you see? The entire city of Detroit thinks that line judge fucked us over but the reality is, he did us the biggest goddamn favor anyone has done all season – Stafford, Mayhew and Lombardi are all one step further out the door and that pinstriped bastard practically just gave us Jared Goff for fuck’s sake! The man is an accidental, incompetent hero Caesar; he saved us from ourselves!”
I desperately scanned my friend’s eyes for some glint of recognition, some sign that he’d understood all that I’d just imparted to him; but there was only a dazed, catatonic glare as he looked right through my skull and off into the darkened corner of my front room. I knew the expression well as a Lions fan, the stupid, confused, half-smile of a deranged fanatic finally coming to grips with the staggering truth that even if Lucy hadn’t snatched the football away at the last second, Mayhew and the Lions were simply too fucking incompetent to successfully kick the damn thing anyways. Lifting Caesar’s legs onto the couch and draping a tattered blanked over his midsection; I pressed the lit joint between his fingers before attempting to return to my writing.
“Wait, Nina,” he called out suddenly; startling me so much that I nearly smashed his head in with the Crown Royal bottle after all. “Why Jared Goff – why not Cardale Jones or something’ he asked softly, as sleep began to claim his weary body.
I smiled and replied, “tomorrow, when your fat ass wakes up, I’ll show you some clips of a guy named Akili Smith and we’ll talk about it then Caesar; just go to fucking sleep” before turning back to my writing.
(Week 5 NFL Picks: home teams are in caps with my choice to win listed first. Once again, our legal department has threatened to lock me in fucking a padded room with Chris Berman if I don’t remind you that these picks are in fact, for entertainment purposes only and that gambling can be a serious addiction problem – unless you call it Daily Fantasy Football and bribe the shit out of Congress to pretend its not actually gambling when it most certainly fucking is.)
Colts (+5) over TEXANS:
In what is rapidly now becoming a 2015 tradition, this week’s Thursday Night Football match-up features two teams that probably looked pretty fucking exciting back when the TV schedule was set, but are now twisted, broken shells of their former greatness. The biggest secret in the NFL this season is that opponents are starting to scheme JJ Watt out of nearly every single play and that nobody else on the Texan’s defense has done a goddamn thing to convince enemy coaches this isn’t a winning strategy. Watt may be enough of a rampaging man-beast to consistently beat double and triple teams; but he can’t also be expected to chase runners down all day for a Texans defense that literally cannot cover half the fucking field despite knowing the ball will always move away from JJ Watt for fuck’s sake. Further casting doubt on Houston’s ability to cover a five point spread is the fact that statuesque failure Ryan Mallett continues to start at quarterback for the Texans because Brian Hoyer should probably be somewhere parking goddamn cars for a living and most definitely not playing QB in the National Football League. The only reasons not to take the Colts here are because they’ve looked terrible in every single game so far, Andrew Luck is still too injured to start and Matt Hasselbeck’s desiccated corpse somehow contracted a bacterial parasite during last week’s game – keeping him in the emergency room until roughly 2 AM Tuesday morning. Actually, those are some pretty good reasons because this presents the very real possibility that someone or something named Josh Johnson will take over under center for Indianapolis, at some point in the game. Just between you and me however, I’m frankly not all that worried about this potential development myself; after all, I’m pretty sure most NFL teams could beat this year’s iteration of the Texans with my fucking landlady at quarterback.
BUCCANEERS (-2.5) over Jaguars:
Completely resistible force clashes with surprisingly easy to move object this Sunday afternoon as the hapless Jaguars travel to face the equally goddamn pathetic Buccaneers. At stake will be a contrived, in-state rivalry that will have absolutely no effect what-so-fucking-ever on the NFL playoff picture by the time the season is done. The Jags can’t win on the road, the Bucs have lost eleven, yes, eleven consecutive fucking home games and yet despite this, the goddamn sadists at 345 Park Avenue absolutely insist that this game be contested in high-definition television where millions of children could potentially be exposed to terrible fucking football. Can anyone really “win” a game this staggeringly awful, or are we all not poorer of spirit, simply because it occurred? I’ll leave that question to the minds of future historians and simply remind all of you that only a stark raving goddamn lunatic would willingly bet money on either Blake Bortles or Jameis “Crab Legs” Winston, regardless of the circumstances. Fortunately, I am just such a stark raving lunatic so I’ll take the Bucs and give up the home field points – but under absolutely no circumstances whatsoever, should anyone actually watch this fucking game.
Bills (-2.5) over TITANS:
Last week, I advised betting on the Bills to crush the objectively terrible New York Giants and was quickly reminded that Rex Ryan teams practically specialize in shitting the bed at the precise moment everyone finally starts to believe in them – good one Rex, got me again you foot-loving son of a bitch. This of course, leaves Buffalo facing legitimate questions this week about it’s massively under-performing defense and whether or not the team can string together three consecutive plays without taking a stupefying, bone headed personal foul penalty of some kind. The answer to the latter query is of course, no, but it won’t matter on Sunday in the slightest, because Buffalo can still unload a massive can of whoop-ass against the run and Marcus Mariota isn’t quite ready to win games in the NFL on his arm alone. On the road, against a manageable point spread and with the national media simply itching to shove an apple in his mouth and declare Rex’s AFC East reunion tour cooked; the Bills will of course dominate this game from start to finish before openly challenging various members of the New England Patriots to a gang-fight during post game interviews.
Browns (+6.5) over RAVENS:
Folks, I would be talking out of my fleshy pink ass if I told you that repeatedly betting on the Josh McCown led Browns to break a one TD cover every goddamn week wasn’t making me more nervous than a recent parolee sipping bathtub hooch in a blind pig that’s about to be raided. The Cleveland Browns are, without a doubt, a goddamn awful football team and arguably the only organization in the NFL that can seriously challenge the Lions as far as long term, self-inflicted misery goes. With that having been said however, it’s important to note that the Ravens only beat a Vick-led Steelers squad because Pittsburgh’s coaching staff developed a sudden, acute case of “oh-shit-we-forgot-to-give-the-ball-to-our-best-player-itis” in overtime. Furthermore, Baltimore talisman of unbridled, homicidal rage, Steve Smith will sit this one out, along with pretty much every other goddamn human being Joe Flacco is supposed to throw to on offense. I don’t want to disparage the pass catchers Baltimore will run out on Sunday, but rumor has it they’d have to go back to prison with Burt Reynolds unless they agreed to play for the Ravens. Shit, it’s a home game for Baltimore so maybe they could hold one of those halftime fan competitions or something – catch a 15 yard out from our third string QB and you get to start at flanker for the second half! I’m just spitballing here folks; the Ravens should be able to win the game but Cleveland will likely keep it close before finding new and interesting ways to choke away the W in the end.
FALCONS (-7.5) over Racial Slurs:
As those of you who regularly read my column already know, I’m going to take the Falcons here because they’re facing off against that racist, fascist little prick Dan Snyder and his dumpster fire in motion NFL franchise. The fact is however, I’m not entirely sure what sort of twisted logic makes Washington a seven and a half point dog (while Philly is favored by five over the Saints) after what we saw last week. Maybe Vegas thinks Washington got lucky, maybe it’s because this game won’t be played in the middle of a rainstorm or maybe, just maybe – people are finally starting to figure out that the Atlanta Falcons are as real as mutherfucking penitentiary steel my friends. Regardless, the Falcons have been extremely friendly to our bankroll so far this season, making them an easy pick over failure, bigotry and the quarterback-like substance known as Kirk Cousins this Sunday.
Bears (+10) over CHIEFS:
The only thing you need to know about this game is that there is no plane, no realm, no sphere of existence, where an Alex Smith-led team should be favored by ten goddamn points over anyone – let alone a Bears squad directed by Jay Cutler in full “winning just to spite my fucking boss” mode. Are the Chiefs going to win this match-up? Probably, because if they can’t beat a team who’s management is actively trying to tank away the season, the long knives will be out for coach Andy Reid and not even the protective layer of dried barbecue sauce he cultivates as a form of body armor can save him. Like most Huttese overlords however, Andy is nothing if not a survivor and by hook or crook, he should be able to eke out a narrow victory against Cutler and twenty-one other guys who’d rather be golfing already. On the other side of the match-up, it will be interesting to watch which Chicago players feel trapped inside a devastating, soul crushing crater of failure, and which ones are actively auditioning for an escape via trade or free agency.
Saints (+5) over EAGLES:
To say that something has gone horribly fucking wrong in Philadelphia would be like saying the Hindenburg had a minor problem with small fires that one time. Chip Kelly’s curious offseason tinkering has turned the Eagles offense into a real as life disaster flick; complete with a terror stricken protagonist who invariably makes all the wrong fucking decisions at precisely the worst moments in QB Sam Bradford. Yes, the Saints are legitimately terrible with the exception of a healthy Drew Brees; but this will be Drew’s second game back after a mysterious shoulder injury and absolutely nothing about the choke job Philly dropped on the world last week suggests they should be favored by five against a team with a real goddamn quarterback. For entire halves at a time, the Eagles have looked like the worst team in the NFL and that is no easy feat in a league that also contains the fucking Detroit Lions, let me tell you. I’d say it was time to begin the Chip Kelly countdown to termination but the truth is, that loony son of a bitch pulled so many head scratching moves this offseason that the countdown began sometime in the second quarter of the week two loss against Dallas. Better to say instead – adios Chip, you’re gonna love the University of Texas next season you fucking muppet.
Rams (+10) over PACKERS:
The current going theory on the Los Angeles Rams – according to long-suffering fans and crackpot superstitious gamblers – is that they have absolute gobs of talent, but youth and shitty coaching prevent the team from maintaining intensity against poor competition. Personally, that sounds like a giant pile of horse manure to me, but I’m also at a complete goddamn loss to explain to you how a squad can vomit up a total of six points at home to the fucking Steelers, and then go into the desert to rip Arizona’s still-beating heart out and eat it on live television like the Rams did last week. Did they catch the Cardinals at the right time, or is there some kind of supernatural curse driving this team towards costing me money every single mutherfucking week of the season? For now, there’s no way to tell, so I’ll take the points against a Packer’s offense that was surprisingly disinterested in finally putting a staggeringly awful 49ers squad away last week.
BENGALS (-3) over Seahawks:
While the rest of the world bemoaned last second fumbles and borderline nauseating officiating at the end of last Monday night’s game, savvy gamblers were busy aggressively betting down Seattle’s chances of repeating in the NFC because their offensive line is clearly a flaming pile of hot festering garbage. The next time Russel Wilson’s blockers give him three clean seconds in the pocket, it’ll be the first time this entire fucking season they’ve done so. This isn’t to say Seattle is a terrible team; they’re still loaded to the fucking gills with mutant, superhero athletes who can turn a game on the big play; but with the line in shambles, they now have to work a voodoo ritual of some kind to win, each and every single goddamn week. Sooner or later however, and usually against good football teams, that strategy fails harder than the rhythm method of birth control on prom night; and despite literal years worth of evidence to the contrary – the Cincinnati Bengals, finally, appear to be an actual good, although not necessarily great, football team, maybe. So long as Cincy continues to employ a soulless ginger who shits himself every time the other team brings the blitz at quarterback, no bet on the Bengals will ever truly be safe; but they should have enough to beat Seattle and cover a three point spread this Sunday.
Cardinals (-2.5) over LIONS:
If ever there was a line on a match-up that exemplified the staggering tendency of gamblers to savagely overreact to one week’s worth of football games, this is the fucking one folks. The simple truth is that the Arizona Cardinals are a very, very good football team, while the Detroit Lions have already become a walking, festering corpse – desperately clinging onto mathematical playoff possibilities like a fetid zebra mussel sucking on the side of a goddamn petroleum coke barge in the St Clair river. Furthermore, the Lions best player on Monday night, defensive end Ziggy Ansah, is currently listed as questionable on the team injury report. Without Ansah, there is absolutely no goddamn chance the Lions can win this game and even with him, victory probably depends on Ziggy putting Cardinals QB Carson Palmer in traction before the start of the fourth quarter. Finally, while the Cards did drop a close contest with a Rams team many expected them to beat by two scores; it seems to me like Detroit is getting an awful lot of credit for almost, sorta, but not actually fucking beating a Seahawks squad that may only be good enough to win against legitimately awful football teams. Betting the Cardinals in this game with such a small line genuinely feels like printing free money and I’d personally consider mortgaging my house to get in on this action – if I had a goddamn house to mortgage that is. Thanks Obama.
Patriots (-8.5) over COWBOYS:
Quick, if your life depended on making the right decision in a fraction of a second and you could choose between Tom Brady in full “fuck you Goodell” mode or Brandon goddamn Weedeon to help you, which one would you pick? Okay, now that we’ve established why the Patriots are going to win this game very easily – let’s talk a little bit about what a human piece of steaming dogshit Greg Hardy is and why the Dallas Cowboys should be fucking ashamed that he’s suiting up for this game after his goddamn heel turn this week when discussing why he was suspended in the first place. For those of you who’ve been living under a fucking rock, Hardy is just now returning from a four game suspension for multiple instances of heinous physical violence against his former girlfriend – including slamming her by the neck into a futon full of loaded guns and threatening to shoot her if she dared to tell anyone about it. Naturally of course, before his first game back – Hardy decided to would be incredibly funny to make jokes about Tom Brady’s wife, her sister and coming out “guns blazing” because he’s an unrepentant, abusive sociopath who belongs behind goddamn bars and not on a fucking football field in front of millions of fans. As long as the NFL continues to let literal shitheel, control freak, wife beaters like Hardy parade in front of the cameras on a weekly basis, the league’s so called commitment to ending domestic violence and it’s on again, off again courtship of female fans, will remain a whole lotta empty promises from a whole lotta empty goddamn heads. I’m sorry folks; that’s not funny at all – it’s just fucking sad.
Broncos (-4.5) over RAIDERS:
Look, anyone who’s been reading this column the past few weeks knows that I think the Los Angeles Raiders have finally turned a corner and built up a strong enough offense to actually look like a goddamn professional football team most weeks for the first time in almost a bloody decade. The blossoming of Derek Carr into a guy who no longer wears eyeliner to press conferences, coupled with superhuman, mutant, werewolf athletes like Amari Cooper and Lavatvius Murray; suggest that the Raiders are going to have some excellent days on offense this season – they just won’t be against a monstrous Broncos defense that’s grown accustomed to feasting on the raw flesh of frightened, broken quarterbacks every single week. On offense, the Broncos are a complete mess – the line can’t block anyone, injuries are mounting in the receiving corps and the team’s antediluvian quarterback still needs three whole quarters to warm up his ancient throwing arm every fucking game. None of that will matter on Sunday afternoon however because the Broncos are going to hit Carr early, often and with the stated intent of severing his bloody head from his shoulders so Von Miller can stick it up on the mantle next to Teddy Bridgewater’s ball security and Matt Stafford’s pride.
49ers (+6.5) over GIANTS:
The Sunday night game this week presents an interesting opportunity to wager on a battle between a team that may be a breeding ground for a potentially fatal bacterial infection, and one that is merely starting a potentially fatal bacterial infection at quarterback. In just four short weeks, 49er’s QB Colin “Crapernick” had driven the San Francisco offense directly off the cliff of “decent enough so long as they keep the ball on the ground” and into the fiery chasm of “oh my fucking christ, this shit should come with a fucking warning label – my eyes, they’re burning, I will sue your ass for this butchery York!” On the other side, we find an improving Giants team that has desperately clawed it’s way back to .500 after shitting the bed twice already this year when entering the fourth quarter with fucking double-digit leads in back to back losses to open the season. So why am I taking the 49ers? The answer involves complicated historical data about how West Coast teams perform in primetime against their East Coast counterparts, a general continued disbelief that Eli Manning is good at virtually anything in life, including playing the quarterback position at an NFL level, and three mystical, talking, spirit felines sent to speak prophecy to me in a dream by former Lions/9ers coach Steve Mariucci. Suffice to say, when a giant goddamn Siamese cat-beast with glowing red eyes tells you to bet on Kaepernick or it’ll devour your very soul – you don’t argue, you just take the points and run.
CHARGERS (-3) over Steelers:
Here again, we’re faced with a late evening prime time matchup between a team from the West Coast and a team from the rusted, decaying heart of America’s once proud industrial manufacturing center. This time however, we won’t need any dream quest mumbo-jumbo to pick a winner because the Steelers are still starting Mike Vick at quarterback, and that means they have absolutely no fucking chance of winning this game or the support of avid dog lovers across the nation. How fucking done is Vick? Rumor has it that McDonald’s just threw him into the garbage in front of a weeping, ravenous homeless man because his sell by date was over three fucking years ago. This of course dovetails perfectly into the Chargers identity as a prolific offensive team that can drop twenty-five plus points on anyone – that is also unfortunately burdened by a defense that habitually plays like reheated vomit on game days. Assuming Vick takes care of disabling the Steelers offense, Rivers and the Chargers should have more than enough to welcome ageless, steroid-abusing wonder tight end Antonio Gates back to the fold with a rousing victory on Monday night.
There you have it ladies and gentlemen – my complete guide to wagering on Week 5 NFL action for football freaks, gonzo geeks and degenerate gambling addicts who have to bet every single available game each goddamn weekend. Remember, while I can’t legally assure that these picks will win you money – I can legally claim to speak directly to Jesus on your behalf in exchange for a completely unregulated, tax-free donation that I am then free spend on prostitutes, blow and a satanic sex dungeon with very little chance of ever being exposed for the hypocritical fraud I am. Isn’t religious liberty grand folks?
Last Week: 9 – 6 – 0
Season: 33 – 29 – 1
- Nina Illingworth