Another week, another screed of nonsensical wibbling.
We begin this week with a trip to Britain’s second city. A clanking, concrete hellhole with as much charm as a sclerotic pimp, a City centre so bereft of charm that it actually begins to look like Tottenham if you squint at it in the right way, and a people so troglodytian they make Kyle Walker look like Plato.
They speak in a voice which sounds uncannily like someone drowning in a bucket whilst singing a particularly dirge-like hymn, and believe me, I should know. We talk of course, of Birmingham, and specifically to Witton. Witton’s claim to notability is that on 13 November 1929, a waste lime main pipe in a river became dislodged and slid six to twelve feet downstream. So you see? It is hardly London.
There was of course something of a score to settle; the visit of the second most annoying team in claret and blue back at the beginning of term ended in a home defeat, which caused much gnashing of teeth amongst the faithful, which gave rise not only to very many visits to the tooth quack, but also calls for the head of Mr. Windsor. Little did we know, however, that Mr. Orwell was on his way, and Woolwich would embark on a promising league run ending with our current position in the crow’s nest of English football, gently micturating on those below us.
The result of course was not in doubt. A splendid pair of goals from our young French distributional Wing-Commander, ‘Le Rosbif’, Monsieur Wilshère and Brigadier Goring-Hildred, ‘The Ram’, who tickled over Villa’s defenders on his way to the goal like they were made from pipe cleaners. As much as I hate to say it, because the cove was quite clearly a guffawing oaf of the very first water, but there is something of Mr. Drogba about him, no? Special mention for the first goal should go to Messrs Mandeville and Orwell, combining sumptuously early in the move. Wonderful to see Devon’s Delight, Mr. Mandeville, working so well with our ‘Wandsworth Wizard’ Mr. Orwell.
We should of courts reflect upon the injury to young Nathan Baker. Now Mr. Knabbley, for it was he who unleashed the shot, does have a pleasingly vicious left peg. In my day of course, things would be much more serious than a minor concussions. Footballs were once formidable objects, great solid puddings of porous leather, that in the wet could weigh what seemed like three or four pounds. I have seen dead legs, blood blisters, broken noses, black eyes, impelled genitalia & snapped wrists, all from that dread moment when ball meets man in an unintended way, but the worst must have been a decapitation during an Arsenal friendly against Preston North End in 1933. David Jack it was, high on amphetamines I expect (they all were), put his boot to ball like it was the arse of an errant stable lad, and by Jove, that ball flew at the Preston centre half. And off came his head! Ping, up and up it went, turning over and over, and landed in the lap of the tea lady. I shall never forget that. I’m sure that’s what happened, although I was a bottle of gin deep at the time.
Despite a late hit and hope session from Villa, we prevailed, and remain in the rightful position. I was engaged in some skirmishing on the Twitter with a semi-literate Villa fan (is there any other type?), and I called him a ‘whoreson lout’, to which he replied, and I quote, “I no all you fans are foreign but please talk English.” I told him that in fact I had been quoting Sir William Shakespeare, who is not only English, but also from the Midlands. I ask you, what ARE they teaching the young of this country?
And so poor old Fulham get to visit a proper stadium on Saturday. Have you been to their place? A glorified boat shed on the Thames held together with bits of string and some butcher’s twine. They will arrive at The Emirates with the required amount of envy, and hopeful, be dispatched with a healthy dollop of cook’s special disappointment sauce.
TRANSFERS? DO SPARE ME. (UNLESS SOMETHING DELIGHTFUL HAPPENS)
Is he coming or is he not? Julian ‘The Count’ Drackle? Surely we are blessed in the final third genius stakes? And what of Paul George Nuthip? At least he’s a striker. But what about a centre-half? When we get to the thick end of the season things could get a bit dicey that back there. But what do I know? Where’s my pipe? Who are you? I know nothing of this Lord Lucan of whom you speak? Nurse! THE SCREENS.
