I begin this week with some words of advice. I lie here barking these words at the butler, who is typing them into his glowing briefcase. I am reclining on a chaise longue, cooled flannel upon my brow and precautionary bucket nearby. My advice is this: Never mix red wine with white wine. Specifically, do not mix two bottles of red wine with three bottles of white wine. Do not mix two bottles of red wine with three bottles of white wine with a jeroboam of vintage Champagne. Do not mix two bottles of red wine with three bottles of white wine, a jeroboam of vintage Champagne, a bottle of dessert wine, half a bottle of brandy and a flagon of Jaegermiester. Do not mix two bottles of red wine with three bottles of white wine, a jeroboam of vintage Champagne, a bottle of dessert wine, half a bottle of brandy, a flagon of Jaegermiester and half an ounce of jazz salt.
One of my idols, the sadly departed P.G. Wodehouse defined categories of hangovers thus: The Broken Compass, the Sewing Machine, the Comet, the Atomic, the Cement Mixer and the Gremlin Boogie. Ladies and gentlemen, I am currently sashaying with a formidable gremlin.
The cause of such excess? Why of course, it is the news that Mr. Piers Morgan has been fired, ejected, rejected, removed, expunged, thrown out, taken down and expelled from his position as irritant to many millions of colonials. That he has been dethroned is no surprise, that it took the colonies three years to discover that the man was a fleshy, gulping flimp certainly is. One wonders why a condescending and smug Englishman telling Americans what to do was unsuccessful – after all, that is how we ran the place until the 1776 unfortunateness. Let us hope that he finds employment if not in the American colonies then somewhere equally as far away – perhaps Van Diemens Land, or Timbuktu, or Lake Titicaca. As long as it is not London, although the temptation to move back to the home of his actual favourite football team, Chelsea, might prove too great.
Sunderland and District Teachers AFC v Woolwich Arsenal
… To give this match its proper title. A brace from the Brigadier, who had been suffering from rolling pin injuries to the head, a bruised groin, and the effects of having to sleep out in his hound’s accommodation in the garden. Robinson popped one in after a lovely piece of tickety-tackety, and the icing on the cake was a noggin-bobbler from our fine English sentinel Laurence Costerley. Occasionally, it is a great pleasure to thrash some black cats. The perfect preparation for the arrival of one of the English League’s most pampered sides, Stoke Town.
THE STOKE TOWN HORDES AWAIT
I say Stoke Town, as Stoke is not a proper City. It does not have a cathedral. It is a collection of horrible towns, competing with each other for title of Slum of the Year. They used to make pisspots there. That is their main claim to fame. Ex bedpan makers. Ex bedpan makers who are something of a paradox. They play up to their ‘tough’ northern image, yet are bankrolled to the tune of £85 million by a wealthy local family. If it were not for this unfair injection of capital, Stoke Town would be languishing in the Championship, where one day they shall return.
Another paradox is that they complain that Arsenal fans keep bringing up The Leg Break. It should be pointed out that tomorrow, Stoke fans, on the 67th minute will hold a minute’s silence, and then begin chanting Ryan Shawcross’s name. It leaves one with the same feeling of puzzlement as when men in sashes and bowler hats celebrate some otherwise long-forgotten battle from 200 years ago. Stoke fans of the underclass: Let it go. That goes for us, too. Perhaps Mr. Orwell, who has returned from a touch of the wibble-wobbles, will take them to school tomorrow. The sturdiness of Mr. Flame will certainly be necessary. Let us hope that Mr. Shawcross touches his parrot.
THE MIGHTY SPURS GO MARCHING ON
What a night for Tottenham! Their legend, Jermain Defoe, who has departed to B & Q to model for a new range of garden gnomes, sorry, I mean gone to the colonies for one final payday, made an emotional appearance on the very same night that Tottenham Hotspur swept aside the mighty Dnipro, seven times winners of the Champions League. They really showed then who’s boss, scraping through with a burst of spawny goals from the lanky, grinning, simple-minded louse. What a club.
TRIPLE GOOD NEWS
We await with interest news of the extensions of Messrs Robinson, Meatlocker and Cousins. It will be a wonderful moment when these fine Englishmen put quill to parchment. I am particularly excited about the Bloody Fine Gentleman. What a sentry he has been for us this term. Let us hope this news arrives soon.