Flapplesthwaite’s Revenge

A famous bacchanalian feast in which I partook back in 1924 at one of the Royal palaces consisted of 23 courses. Beginning with a parfait of worried cucumber, followed by an explosion of swan, dutch-style baked baboon, half an ounce of the King’s finest cocaine, roast emperor penguin, jellied pygmy and so on, accompanied by several thousand pounds worth of wine, whisky, port and laudanum. This went on for several days, only ending with the hanging of poor old Falsies Johnson. Thank god for corrupt coppers, that’s what I always say unless I am actually in custody myself.

I was reminded of this orgy this week when we crashed to defeat against Flapplesthwaite’s Flim-Flams, the Swansea Bluebirds. Not because the game recalled that sybaritic night, but because of the almighty hangover which I suffered for several days afterwards. Wodehouse once wrote: “I am told by those who know that there are six varieties of hangover — the Broken Compass, the Sewing Machine, the Comet, the Atomic, the Cement Mixer and the Gremlin Boogie.”

Losing against Monk’s Mufflers is by no means the most severe of these, the Gremlin Boogie (“a psychological condition that enables the sufferer to revel in their hungover state”) but certainly qualifies as a Comet (“The Comet has been praised by philosophers for its simplicity, which is often said to be beautiful in a mathematical sense. It has only a single symptom, which is the forcible expulsion of the contents of the stomach through the mouth.”)

In succumbing to 85 minutes of frustrating Chumps’ Chaff* followed by Gomis’s Noggin Bobbler we
missed the opportunity to move level on points with Northern Chelsea in second place in the division. Swansea’s Six Man Smother did the job for them and Woolwich were only able to muster one real chance in the first half with The Brigadier noggin-bobbling wide from a Ramsara artillery volley.

Mr. Windsor had clearly put the wind up Woolwich at oranges and we trotted out with more of a sense of purpose with Saunders foxtrotting past a Swansea defender but could only find the Tottenham Wonderstrike**

Flapplesthwaite made couple of saves rarely seen in Arsenal green, especially from Cousins and Ramsara, and the piece de resistance was a Balfour Bongo*** from Saunders and Fenton. You cannot deny the lad is a top quality glove butler. Mr. Ramsden has done a fine job there for Woolwich this season since Mr. Sesley’s Shaming but one cannot but hope that Mr. Windsor shops in Harrod’s, or assists Mr. Cech in his escape, for a true competitor between the cabers next season, although sadly this is a view shared by Mr. P. Neville, the runt of the Neville litter, whose views on football are normally as insightful as those of that moustachioed whoreson Mr. Lawrenson.

In other news, Mr. Windsor has determined that Mr. Fenton can be converted from a winger to a striker, and that he should sign a new contract, citing that Mr. Henry, that deity who walked among us as an example. Quite how similar Mr. Fenton and Mr. Henry are remains to be seen, although I have lost count of the new Thierry Henrys. Mr. Gervinho was to be the new Mr. Henry. Indeed, Mr. Remy, now lost at sea, as well as Messrs Gilles Sunu, and Joel Campbell. Perhaps the best course of action is not to attempt to create the new Mr. Henry, but the first of a new hero.

And so to Old Trafford, whose brickwork reminds me of a 1990s Tesco Emporium, to take on the once mighty Glazer Ducks. A fascinating prospect indeed. If we can suppress their target man, the exploding match Mr. Fellaini, and that little codpiece Rooney, then we shall triumph.

* A style of football which suppresses attack, named after an antimissile measure.
** The side netting of a goal. Named after the reaction of Tottenham fans when the ball is struck toward the goal and the ranked simpletons in the crowd scream with delight.
*** A double save. No idea why ‘Balfour’.