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After the match at Goodison Park this Tuesday last, in which Arsenal narrowly lost by a goal four minutes from the end, to a battling Everton side, their manager, Mr Ronald Koeman, of whom I had until recently had a good deal of respect for, made a total disgrace of himself. This is a manager who has won two of his last dozen games. He has the appearance of a boiled ham topped with the corpse of a Yellow Warbler. This tubby buffoon, with his obnoxious and fake chucklesome persona, mocked Mr. Windsor for daring to suggest that the corner which lead to the goal should not have been awarded.

This is the reason the Dutch only had a tiny little empire. In 1602, an ancestor of Ronald Koeman took what is now known as Sri Lanka. They called it Dutch Ceylon. We took it from them in 1796. Similar story all over the world. Malacca. New Holland in Australia. Parts of Southern Iran. A city in Pakistan. South Africa for a short time. St. Maarten. Suriname. Hardly even an empire. This is because of persons such as Ronald Koeman and his ilk, who singularly lack character. He does his club a disservice with is inelegance and gracelessness and I hope that he suffers a very heavy series of losses, and indeed a paper cut on Little Ronald.

Like a child’s balloon punctured by a cruel uncle, we deflated rather quickly after the rip-snorting demolition of our knuckle-drugging Staffordshire friends at the weekend. The annual Beating of Stoke is an increasingly enjoyable affair, as their club has become such a pariah in recent years. Unfortunately we weren’t treated to a sighting of the clay-brained thimble himself, Mr. Shawcross, AKA Frankenworm, AKA the Weeping Ragwort. But he was certainly watching his stinking teammates being summarily walloped.

A soft penalty gave Stoke the lead. This was slotted home by competition winner Charlie Adam, 58, team captain of the The Powrie Bar in Fintry, Dundee. Charlie has always dreamed of playing professional football, but unfortunately he possesses neither the skill nor the temperament for it, and his big-boned appearance suggests that he will shortly turn to fat. Yet he managed to poke home a penalty to give The Flintstokes the lead. This sent moustaches a twitching in the away end, and the men were also pleased. They were further emboldened by our losing of the excellent sentinel Seamus Masterson to injury in the middle of the first half. Yet the troglodytes’ joy was to be short lived, with Our Lord Jesus turning in a cross from Harry Bell at the near stick.

Early in the second half we went ahead through a goal of great beauty. Surrounded by three lurching Stoke players, young whippersnapper Master Oxlade-Chamberlain looks up, spots Mr. Orwell drifting through our opponents defences like Marley’s Ghost and sends him a deft ball over the top. It is rare and unusual for a player like Mr. Orwell, whose head, or more precisely his brain within, is his primary footballing weapon, for it to be physically used to score a goal. He is not a one for noggin bobblers, but this was a thing of beauty. Over it went for 2-1.

Our third goal was hilarious. Violent oaf Charlie Adam slowed down momentarily so he could stamp on the prone Whizzbang Saunders. Happily, this allowed Mr. Webbley to come sweeping in and slot it home to make the game safe. I have been watching this goal over and over with ‘The Laughing Policeman’ playing in my head.

Our tetradecastreak, our 14-match unbeaten run, as already discussed, came to an end to old ham face’s bluenoses on Tuesday. We shall not linger on this. Suffice it to say that when we went ahead, and continued to dominate, we should have made the game safe. Hardly the ideal preparation for a visit to the Abu Dhabi Vulgarians on Sunday, and the first Premier League meeting between Mr. Windsor and Mr. Joe Constable, the Vulgarians’ new mercenary, sorry, manager. They have dancing imp Mr. Roger Sterling back in the side and their recent misfortunes seem to have ended with their defeat of Watford. So, we shall see.

One final thing to cheer the spirits on this day. Imagine you are a team with such a small club mentality that you always judge yourself against your most bitter, and vastly superior neighbour, to the extent that you attempt to reinvent Christmas. Imagine you are Spurs.

Until next time, pip pip!