Avast, ye scurvy dogs of the ink-stained ledger! The horizon burns a bruised shade of red and blue, and I assure ye, it ain’t from a Caribbean sunset. This coming Saturday, the Great Port of Manchester prepares for a broadside that’ll rattle the teeth of every landlubber from the docks of Salford to the furthest Spice Islands. The so-called 'Destruction Derby' is upon us—a clash of two armadas so foul-tempered and prideful they’d fire cannons at their own shadows just for the smell of the sulfur.

On the starboard side of the channel, we have the Sky Blue Brigantine, commanded by that bald alchemist Admiral Pep, a man who hoards silver like a dragon with a gouty toe. His flagship is spearheaded by a monstrous Nordic Kraken—the lad Haaland—who, legend says, eats entire defensive lines for breakfast and spits out their shin-guards as toothpicks. Word on the docks is that the City fleet is powered by enough oil and gold to sink a Spanish galleon twice over, and they intend to leave nothing but splinters and salt in their wake. They sail with a cold, mechanical precision that frightens even the bravest privateers.

But wait! Rising from the murky, rum-soaked depths of the Stretford End comes the Red Devil Galley. Once the undisputed terror of the seven seas under the Old King Ferguson, she’s now a battered hull patched together with desperate prayers and overpriced timber. Captain Ten Hag, a man who looks like he’s seen a ghost and then tried to sell it a tactical manual, is desperate to stop his crew from throwing him overboard. 'We shall hold the line or be food for the sharks!' cried Bosun Bruno, waving his arms like a frantic seagull caught in a gale. 'Though our sails be tattered and our cannons occasionally fire backwards into our own galley, we’ll not be scuttled by these nouveau-riche privateers without a fight!'

The consequences of this Saturday skirmish are higher than a crow’s nest in a hurricane. Lord 'Glass-Leg' Glazer, a man who hasn't stepped foot on a wooden deck without a velvet slipper in decades, is reportedly sweating his stolen ducats. If the Red Galley sinks further into the abyss, the rum trade in the local taverns will turn to vinegar, and the betting houses on Tortuga will see more tears than a widow’s wake. The very tides of the Premier Ocean depend on this carnage. Should City prevail, their 'Blue Moon' will cast a shadow over the world until the end of days; should United win, it’ll be a miracle greater than finding a bottle of fine wine in a bilge-rat's locker.

So, sharpen your rusted cutlasses and prepare your grog, ye miserable lot. The Saturday kickoff is a death-knell for the weak of heart. Whether you fly the banner of the Devil or the Moon, expect blood in the scuppers and salt in the wounds. As the old salt Quartermaster Keane muttered into his sour ale this morn, 'There’s no heart in the modern navy, just shiny boots and soft biscuits, but I’d pay a doubloon to see these two fleets tear each other’s throats out.' The destruction is set, the fuse is lit, and God help the Irwell, for the cannons are primed for chaos!