Now is as good a time as any to express my utter loathing of Stoke City FC, an assembly of club footed bonefaced pathological cavemen who sadly love nothing more than to ruin Villa supporters' lives. For around sixty minutes tonight we were utterly in control, playing into feet and out muscling them in midfield. Lumbersome thugs like Shawcross and Wilson simply had no answers for the Rosicky-in-his-prime-esque wizardy of Albrighton and the steely determination of Downing and Reo-Coker. It was divine right, like when Arsenal show up at your ground and teach you a "footballing lesson". I felt most righteous and high on the hog and began dreaming of the day Rory Delap popped his shoulder, in effect ruining Stoke forever. Sure, it'd be nice to collect six points off of such primitive beasts every year every time but it'd be even better if they just went away and never came back. Win, lose or draw; every game against Stoke gives me an ulcer. As soon as Riccardo Fuller came on I got the fear. This is normal, after all Fuller is an immense specimen and I am not. The problem is Collins and Dunne, both titans in their own right, started getting twitchy, too. This energy spread to the rest of the team and soon enough we stopped playing altogether, inviting more and more pressure, the consequences of which were pure Laurel & Hardy.