[Arseblog note: due to circumstances beyond my control …*cough* … this column failed to publish on schedule. We would thus ask you to please go back in time to Friday before reading. Many thanks.]
I shall not lie to you, dear reader, I am lit up like the Royal Naval fleet bedecked in fairy lights. I am awash, oiled, stinko, tanked and illuminated. I am lathered. I am, indeed, somewhat ossified. For these are heady days for Woolwich, and I have been partial to more than the usual libations following recent events.
Firstly, agin Marseille, they played to type, lounging around like the bone-idle southerner he is. And I speak as part Frenchman. I say ‘Frenchman’, I actually own a few thousand acres in Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur. I say ‘own’, the precise ownership of the property is somewhat hazy. I won it in a card game back in ’36. I say ‘won’, I did, in fact, shoot the bloody fool in a duel. I say ‘a duel’, I was actually one over the eight in Monaco one evening, pulled out my derringer and shot the bugger. And therefore, by ancient common-law, claimed his land.
Anyhow. Marseillians are notoriously lazy (and they cannot prepare a Rob Roy to save their lives) and so it proved this Tuesday past. Perhaps Monsieur Wilshère felt a tinge of compassion for his countrymen, but then again perhaps not. His first arriving double-quick, in just thirty-three ticks of the undertaker’s pocket-watch, making it the fastest goal scored by a Frenchman in European Cup history. They are not ALL lazy. It is also worth noting that Monsieur Wilshère started the match-up as a right-footed portside dandy, the same role as the fondly remembered Mr. Robert Powers, who played in that position for 45 unbeaten games. If young Jacques can match that fine Englishman, a kind of nimble-footed southclaw, then we are set fair for this season.
The second was set in motion by Mr. Orwell, who is receiving something of a magnifying glass of late. I would say to these good fellows: Go forth and play some football. Or go forth and watch some football. The sniper sits in his eyrie for many long nights, but it is seldom that his contribution is overlooked in psychological warfare. He has been for Woolwich the final piece of the jigsaw, and much like our dear lord, works in mysterious ways. Although he missed his kick from Nelson’s eye, this seemed to be due to a misconceived run up, as if goading a stout doorman at a revelry hostel after an unseemly ejection from the premises. He shall undoubtedly become a legend for Woolwich.
CLOWNS ARE UNDERRATED
So the English League’s ‘surprise’ outfit caused no surprises as they turned up for their spanking last weekend, with their head clown, Mr. Boruc, in fine form. Fans were delighted by his arrival at the Emirates in his Southampton branded car, with nine other Artur Borucs, similarly attired in goalkeeping outfit, twenty inch brogues, scarlet noses and bright emerald wigs. The car’s doors fell off straight away in customary fashion and a jolly time was had by all. His attempted deception when the Brigadier pick-pocketed him for the first goal was unsuccessful, as Mr. Windsor’s opposition research had informed Mr. Goring-Hildred to expect a carnation with water-squirting capacity if dealing with Mr. Boruc at close quarters.
BROKEN KEYS, BROKEN PROMISES, MIDNIGHT SWIMS
As if it were possible, Mr. Blackwater, the Camden cockroach, who now sports the beard of a communist, has defiled the name of this great club by being arrested for causing criminal damage to a swimming pool. In his apartment building. In Bushey. Nothing says ‘commitment’ more than moving to an apartment building twenty minutes from your training ground. Suffice it to say that Mr. Blackwater is beyond parody, beyond fun-making, and we await the time when we are rid of this ghastly mandrake once and for all. And if he has not found a new host organism by next season I shall be sending him on his final ‘midnight swim’ in a sack halfway across the channel.
No, not a specialist shop for enthusiasts of television and home cinema equipment, but a rather cloying phrase employed at ever-rarer intervals by apologists for Middlesex Rovers. A six goal thrashing form the Vulgarians means that Mr. Villas-Boas, who outlayed one hundred million guineas on what effectively amounts to three zombies, a leech and two cloth bags of tar, may be tending to his garden sooner than he was expecting. I am party to some internal emails at Tottenham, supplied to me by my old friends in the intelligence agencies, and I shall share with you these morsels next week.
In the meantime: Drink too much, eat too much and be merry.