Do you like to fish for salmon? I am sure that you do, as it is one of the most refined and gentlemanly country pursuits. What’s that you say? It is hunting? It seems rather like going on a picnic and shooting a cow, and nobody does that. Well I have news for you, madam – I do. Salmon fishing is a wonderfully murderous pursuit. Incidentally, one only has until the end of November if one wishes to fish on the Tweed. After that one has to wait until the middle of January, whereupon one can take one’s fishing party to the River Tay. There. Don’t ever suggest that this column is useless.
Gent, why are you talking about fishing, I hear you cry. Surely, my darling plebeians, that much is obvious? When observing a caught salmon as it is dragged up and out of the river, I have always surmised that at some point, if it could ignore the searing pain of a hook through its cheek, that the fish must initially feel elated to be magically hauled upwards and out of the river, until the realisation that suffocation awaits. This week, dear friends, we are that salmon. We were hauled up to the summit of the English League and out of the League Cup.
We shall deal with the up first.
The last time Woolwich were at the top of the tree was back in February 2014. How the world has changed since then. Herr Blatter was still ensconced in his… what… lair, is it? In Switzerland. Senhor Mourinho had not quite succumbed to the raging paranoid madness with which he is now so sadly afflicted. Our then glove butler Mr. Sesley was matching our now glove butler Harry the Helmet for clean sheets. Middlesex Rovers had recently been beaten 0-5 at home by a Liverpool side which featured famed racist beaver Senor Luis Suarez.
So it was a great pleasure, albeit a fleeting one, to climb to the top once more. The goals that sealed it were a lovely pair of noggin bobblers, from Goring-Hildred and Costerley, as Everton were sent packing. And who were the suppliers of the gentleman’s favours, so expertly aimed at the pates of Olly and Larry? The first was from the boot of none other than that supreme magician, Melvin Orwell, with his Mesmertron ball which hypnotises opposition defenders. He was supreme on Saturday, completing well over 22/25ths of his passes and providing five clear-cut chances. Our second was from St. John Cousins, who is fast becoming our very own Pocket Pirlo, with Mr. Cockleton his bodyguard, spraying passes hither and thither like a sniper on speed.
Mr. Barkley got one back , and Mr. Lukaku worried the crossbar, but Arsenal prevailed to rise to the heights. The Frenchman Monsieur Gerard Deulofeu proved himself to be quite the cheating little guttersnipe, attempting to hoodwink the referee on a number of occasions – always a shame when a talented player taints his game with dark arts.
So that was the up. The out came in Sheffield. The ultimate humiliation in football, other than the phone call which informs you that Tottenham are interested in your services – is to be kicked out of a competition by a club named after a day of the week. This was a fashion that never quite took hold. Can you imagine a Manchester Thursday? Or a Newcastle Monday? Days are so loaded with emotion, are they not? As Mr. Noel Coward puzzlingly informed us, Sunday and Monday are happy days. Indeed, Tuesday, Wednesday are also happy days. Thursday and Friday are to be considered happy days, yet he makes no mention of the happiest day, Saturday, mentioning only that when the weekend comes, his cycle hums, and he readies himself to race to you. A very rum song indeed.
Yet Wednesday were strangely happiest this week on Tuesday, when they knocked us out of the cup. That other great chronicler of our times, Craigton David, surmises that when attempting to woo a young lady, it is best to take her for a drink on a Tuesday, which should lead to the making of love by Wednesday. He has clearly never met Mrs. Gentleman. When we were courting, it took several months of fraught negotiations and a marriage proposal before we even chilled on a Sunday, let alone making love the very day after! We digress.
We will not dwell on the unpleasant details. One attempt on goal, from Peregrine Meatlocker, was the sum attacking total. Full debuts for Messrs. Webbley and Cameron and full injuries for Fenton and Oxlade-Chamberlain. They join Arkwright (ankle rot), Wilshère (ankle explosion), Danielsan Arantes do Dat Guy Nascimento Santos Welvalho (knee knack), Ramsara (arse tweak), Robinson (weeping knee) and David Ramsden (hand-eye co-ordination malfunction) – meaning we face Swansea, Bayern and Middlesex with a gossamer thin squad.
Here we go again, I hear you cry.
