If we go down...

[Hubble]

To B or not to B, that is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous FFP fines,

Or to take arms against the Football League

And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That watching Ollie's team selections give us.

To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:

For in that sleep of death what dreams of promotion may come,

but only when we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause—there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life for a QPR fan.

For who else would bear the whips and scorns of time?

Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who else but a QPR fan would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovere'd country, AKA the Vanarama National League, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have, even under Wollie,

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action, versus Barnsley.