I'm not sure if exciting is the word

Well its been a quite remarkable season for me personally and going into the final game with one eye at the top and one eye at the bottom of the league is a new experience for me. I must admit I have a horrible feeling that Fulham will not get anything from Fratton Park, but that's not defeatist as I'm not sure that Birmingham or Reading will get the necessary points either.
However it is the last game of the season, which is renowned for unusual scorelines. Fulham to win three consecutive away games? No bother! Throw possible European qualification into the mix through the Fair Play League (fingers crossed for Man City red cards) and it could be an incredible game.
A friend called me up yesterday and wished me luck on the last day of the season. As a Fulham fan. He didn't quite understand that I was actually a Man United fan who had a Fulham season ticket and, frankly, I don't think he wanted to understand it. It was strange, but I suppose symptomatic of the enthusiasm I have shown for Fulham this season.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'