Johnson has a masterplan. Standing 12ft off of every opposition player. Allowing doubt to creep into their mind. After we win the ball we cut a sythe through our half until we meet the terror that is the halfway line. This brute, unyielding and cruel deprives us of our attacking intent. But Johnson soldiers on, willing his troops to pass sideways until the sun, wind and rain wash that devilish halfway line from the pitch, and we can break free like the birds of paridise we are, soaring high into the honeyed land that is the opposition net.