I bid you good day from a grey and drizzly London. As I stare across my library, ignoring the prostate bodies of debutantes and bright young things, the broken glasses, the spent opium pipes, the slumbering dancing girls, the bishops, the Lords and the prize stallion currently under the Regency dining table, I can see clouds. Clouds and rain. These clouds formed following our defeat against the Dalmatians of Zagreb on Wednesday last. We shall return to the Habsburg Unpleasantness shortly, but first we must reflect upon our victory against the Cro-Magnons of Staffordshire.
Stoke, we should always remember, are a kind of Argos Manchester City, enjoying an unrealistically high league position due to the millions of pounds injected into the club by their owners. Stoke have history. They were one of the twelve original clubs in the Football League back in 1888. But before their relatively recent promotion, the last time they were in the top flight of English football was in 1985 when they recorded a slightly humiliating total of 17 points, and were relegated faster than you can say “cavemen”. Peter Coates has pumped tens of millions into the red and white striped footpads and thus Stoke find themselves in the top flight for a sustained period.
Somewhat satisfyingly, Stoke turned up for their usual beating and in so doing they completed their worst start in the Premier League with two points from five games. They are rooted to the foot of the table and mayhap this shall be the year we are finally rid of their awful pestilence once and for all. I have a magnum of a very nice Krug 1985 awaiting this happy circumstance and you are welcome to join me to toast the final removal of these small time charlies. What must Messrs Shaqiri and Afellay be thinking. One imagines they are furiously reading the small print on their contracts.
The manner of their beating was pleasingly efficient. They have not won away at our place since 1981, so it was no surprise to see such a feeble opponent put up precisely no fight whatsoever. The first goal was a peach. Cockleton saying how-do-you-do to a surprised Stokie, and Orwell unleashing a Mesmertron over the top to Fenton who sashayed and popped it past young Butland in the Stoke goalmouth. Goring-Hildred doubled Woolwich’s lead with a noggin-bobbler in the second half, and Stoke were lucky to get nil, but really we should have won this game by five or six or thirteen or twenty-three or twenty-nine goals, such was the immense creativity in midfield. This fluffing of lines will cost us dear this season and it does seem somewhat like watching Arsenal: The Motion Picture Part XXVIII: Here We Go Again.
29 attempts on goal. I suppose one small mercy is that Chelsea appear to have bought the wrong Stoke Glove Butler. Jack Butland was excellent, whilst Mr. Begovic is something of a leaky bucket. We hope his wonderfully poor showing so far this term continues when we visit Fulham Dog Track tomorrow. Pray Mr. Fenton continues his record of scoring in every game he starts. Mr. Orwell, that supreme magician, has now provided 76 goalscoring chances this year, more than any other player, including Eden Hazfraud.
And so briefly to Dalmatia, where our ‘B’ lads came a cropper agin the Dynamos of Zagreb. Now they’re a canny lot, the Habsburgs, and their tactics of using Granny’s Reclining Armchair* . When will we learn? We will not ever learn. I do not wish to dwell on this familiar horror but I think we all know what will happen yet again this year on our forays.
Until next time: Toodle Pip!
*Sitting deeply and comfortably and then springing into life on the counter attack
