Ladies and gentlemen, we are living in a peculiar world. We are living in a world in which Jose Mourinho struggles to understand why everyone hates Chelsea. We are living in a world in which if you so much as give your first footman the slightest thrashing for arriving two minutes late for his breakfast duties the local constabulary will arrive and start asking questions. We are living in a world in which Mr. Tony Gale can make a living through speaking. And we are living in a world in which Tottenham Hotspur of Middlesex can put five goals past Chelsea whilst Woolwich Arsenal appear to be heading for the circus, somewhere on the bill between the lions and the clown car routine.
Firstly, we should address the match up agin Mr. Allardyce’s Thames Ironworks last weekend. Mr. Allardyce is a fat, self-regarding nincompoop. A truly full-gorged barnacle who nevertheless seems to be able to turn lumpen coxcombs like Mr. Andrew Caroll and lurching one-legged death-tokens like Stewart Downing into a side which not only are hard to beat, but are playing some annoyingly attractive foot-ball. We know that Mr. Allardyce’s defensive tendencies are only dormant, however; much like the vicious criminal, whose urges only remain suppressed whilst the police are watching him all the week.
Which is why it must have really been twisting his haemorrhoids to see Arsenal, in the words of my colleague Mr. @7amkickoff, out-Allardycing Allardyce. Right there. On his home turf. Akin to heading to Mr. Mourinho’s front garden and being exceptionally annoying on his lawn. We allowed West Ham to hog the menu*. We retired to the chaise longue**. We put on the constable’s helmet*** and we threw a hand grenade into the lake**** when we needed to.
A notable contribution from Mr. Cousins, who seems to have got his spunk back, and was about as welcome in the West Ham final third as a nut cutlet at a cannibal banquet. Like a one-man crime wave, he raided the store-rooms of our pornographically funded east London chums like a burglar on speed, wielding his feet like a pair of jemmies***** and gaining entry seemingly at will. He made the Irons defence look like a gang of half-faced giglets. He rightly bagged one from Nelson’s Eye****** on 41 minutes having been brought down by Mr. Reid, who was perhaps trying too hard on his audition for Arsenal.
Sadly Mr. Song, latterly of these parts, revealed that he has learned very little in terms of sportsmanship when he went as mad as the vexed sea following the correct decision to disallow his volleyed goal. Surely, if we are to believe the sincerity of his hilariously overblown non-celebration, the correct reaction to the disallowing of the goal would have been a hearty cheer? Or perhaps Mr. Song is a beslubbering clack-dish.
And so to St. Mary’s Young Men’s Association where we played like a team without a midfield, chiefly because we don’t really have one. Arkwright, Flame, Wilshère, Ramsara. All of them in sick bay with a thermometer up their jacksies. And so, aided by what might not be the most vintage glove-butlery we have ever seen from young Sesley, accompanied by some defending last seen in use by a group of amusing Colonial law enforcement officers lead by Mr. Arbuckle in black and white movies. Perhaps it was the gallon of sherry each player had drunk the night before, or possibly the three dozen capstans they’d smoked in the bus on the way up (can that be right? It is 1928 is it not?) that excused them playing like a fluther of jellyfish.
One thing is clear. Socks need to be pulled firmly up before the visit of wonk-faced poltroon Mr. Bruce’s Tigers this Sunday, or we shall have mouldy eggnog all over our faces. Which is not as much fun as it sounds, believe me.
Until next week, chums!
* Concede possession
** Sat back
*** Roughed the buggers up when we need to
**** Disrupted play
***** An iron bar use for housebreaking. Do try and keep up.
****** The penalty spot
