Just as the mists descend on the lake which I can see at the far end of the eastern lawns here at my country pile in Kent, a fog has drawn down on the previous exuberance amongst the faithful. Defeat by FC Chelsea 2003 in the league cup – more of which later – followed a grubby but satisfying win away at Selhurst Park Meadows.
NO CRYSTAL PALACE, AND CERTAINLY NO LAWNMOWER
As noted upon the twitter, calling your club ‘Crystal Palace’ is much like Panaliakos FC calling themselves Massive Statue of Zeus, on the grounds that there was once such an erection near the club’s ground. One is tempted to call in the burghers of the trading standards department to enforce a renaming order to something wholly appropriate, such as The Paupers or Not Far From London On The Tram.
There was nary a lawnmower in sight before the game at Selhurst Park, let alone a roller. In fact, the post-impressionist painter Henri Rousseau captured the finely manicured jungle of a pitch in this painting just before kick off:
I recommend that a lawnmower is found in double quick time, and that it is applied to the tonsure of Palace chairman Mr. Steve Parrish. Precisely what attracts this particular species of football executive form the tanning salon to the boardroom is unclear. We all remember Simon Jordan. Or more accurately, we do not.
Still, a win is a win. We only needed ten chaps in the end, and overcame the efforts of Mr. Cholmondely, sporting a haircut which can only be described as iron filings on an egg. The Pathé replays show that Mr. Cholmondely through himself toward Mr. Arkwright, then violently jerked himself away as if brought down by a Lewis gun. If only he had employed such nefariousness during his ill-starred stay at Arsenal.
Special mentions should go to Mr. Bertie Sailor, whose incessant scampering down the flank provided much tribulation for the Palace left-back. Truly, his game reaches new heights for us this term. And indeed Mr. Sesley, an impenetrable performance with two splendidly athletic leaps to deny our opponents. One loves his cry of “NO, SIR!” as he deflects the orb. He is becoming a glove butler par excellence. If only he could think a little less; his reflex saves are superb, but if the fellow has time to think, occasionally disaster ensues. Which is part of Sir Albert’s charm.
FC CHELSEA 2003
And so to the irritating cup defeat to Fu Mourchu and his band of mercenaries. I yield to no one in my deep-seated hatred for the pot-bellied racists from the dog track. Two billion pounds of someone else’s money has subsidised their journey from nobodies, satisfied with signing ex Arsenal players, who duly turned up at Wembley to get beaten by us every couple of seasons into an outfit of some depth and efficiency.
They are of course responsible for massively devaluing the European Cup itself; it has become the footballing equivalent of Groucho Marx’s club – he wouldn’t want to be a member of a club that would have him. We should of course remember that even Aston Villa have won it, so we should take succour from the fact that Mr. Abramovich may end up in a gulag in a few years if the regime changes in Russia, Chelsea will go into administration and be broken up to pay back the two billion in loans he has injected into this vulgar ragtag band of untermenschen.
Although I feel his performance was not quite as appalling as some of the journals have suggested, Mr. Blackwater did look bereft at times. Perhaps Mr. Windsor will emulate my good friend ‘Uncle’ Monty and cry, “We shall never play The Dane.”
SNOUTS IN THE TROUGH AT TOTTENHAM
I say, I say I say, what do you get if you loot your own town, then set fire to it? You get £41 million pounds of public money to subsidise your Emirates Lite stadium on the dubious promise that it will ‘regenerate’ your slum dwellings. £41 million pounds. Or 150 nurses for ten years. I’m sure a petition exists somewhere to raise the profile of this grotesque injustice. We hear that someone from Haringey council visits Mr. Levy once daily, after his morning voidance, to perform the valet’s duty, shall we say.
Also over at White Hovel Lane, we note with amusement that Brad Friedel has now scored as many goals from open play as Roberto Soldado.
Yes, Finland’s own sons, Liverpool FC, visit this coming Saturday. And for one special lad, it’ll be a dream come true. For this shall be the day that Luis Suarez finally achieves his ambition of playing at The Emirates, before Portrait Rodgers laid down the law/ begged for one more season to try and get into the Champions’ League. (“Liverpool should honour their promise and let me leave. My priority is Champions League football. This is about me doing what is right for my career at this moment in time.” – August 2013)
Doubtless he shall receive a warm hand on his entrance.
I made the mistake of showing my support for Justice for the ‘96 before this fixture last year, only to be taken to task by a Mugsmasher over all the other injustices meted out to poor old Liverpool over the years. There’s a lesson there.
Until next time – Toodle Pip!