Firstly this week we turn to FC Chelsea 2003. Their meteoric rise to unearned success has been truly astonishing. From pipe dream of a Russian oligarch to most despised global sporting entity in just 13 years is remarkable. Chief irritant, in a ragtag gang of mercenaries and spivs, is John Terry.
Terry’s rise, from unpleasant patchy-haired ‘not racist’ honest, to very rich unpleasant patchy-haired ‘not racist’ honest, has paralleled that of his host organism. His uncanny sporting ability, which has allowed him to accrue vast wealth, and given him the opportunity to cuckold his teammates, is yet further proof of the lack of existence of a benevolent god. So any misfortune that should befall him brings joy to the world. A misfortune such as his rib-tickling sending off against mighty Peterborough.
It was Mr. Terry’s first appearance since early November. Terry, his legs now as gone as his tiny mind, has been unable to find a way back into FC Chelsea’s first team, and hilarious incidents like this will only reinforce Mr. Conte’s view that Mr. Terry is a spent force. No longer does his name on a teamsheet induce horripilation. This seemed like the beginning of the end, and when he does retire, Chelsea’s hardcore fanbase of pot-bellied racists in Guildford – some of whom were convicted of a racial violence, will weep tears of pure bigotry when that day comes. I shall be cracking open a bottle of Krug. Yet not even the shedding of their role model can change FC Chelsea. Not even a new stadium in the shape of a cat’s sphincter can change them. They are rotten to the core.
To our own travails in the Football Association Cup then, and a nostalgic visit to Deepdale, home of once-great Preston North End. How do you know that Preston North End were a once-great club? Because as soon as you meet a fan, they tell you.
“Who’s your team?”
“I’m Preston North End. We were a founding member of the Football League and the first champions, in the same season we won the FA Cup without conceding a goal to become the first club to achieve the English football Double. We were the first “Invincibles”. Based on results achieved in the Football League from 1888–89 to 2015–16, we were ranked as the fourth most-successful English football club of all time domestically.”
“I think I might pop outside for a cigar.”
The match, then. As is traditional against Arsenal, one of the opposition players turns into a footballing god, and on this occasion it was fitting that it should be the heir to Tom Finney’s majesty down the right wing, Mr. Aiden McGeady. McGeady is no Tom Finney. He’s not even as good as Albert Finney. Normally. And yet, we made him look like the Preston Plumber himself. Sure enough, Mr. Robinsons swept a McGeady ball into the net for one-nil, and it was 1899 all over again. Woolwich improved marginally but at Oranges it was clear that Preston meant business.
Soon after the break Mr. Oxlade-Chamberlain found Mr. Webbley – who was perhaps our best player – whom teed up Ramsara to level the scores. Who should rise, Christ-like from the bench? None other than Mr Danielsan Arantes do Dat Guy Nascimento Santos Welvalho, known to all as ‘Welé’, who almost popped in the winner, but it was The Brigadier who finally won the match for Woolwich with moments left.
And that is the magic of the FA Cup. Crushing the hopes dreams of the fans of smaller clubs into the dirt. Especially the children. Wonderful stuff. We play either Norwich City F.C or St. Mary’s Church of England Young Men’s Association in the 4th round. If it is the former, then I hope Mr. Shackleton gently kicks Ryan Bennett in the clappers for his pushing of Mr. Saunders into their sheep dip/camera position in their substandard slum of a stadium in December 2015.
We should touch upon the heartening news of three players who wish to stay at Arsenal – Goring-Hildred, Larry Costerley and Frank Cockleton – and contrast this with poor James Page, who has decided that the cholera, fallen women, gin palaces and slums of the East End are not for him. He would make a superb addition to the boys in red and white, but we hear he’d prefer The Riviera. And I mean, who doesn’t?
And finally, a new addition. Dutch teenage sensation Coenraad Brandwijk joins Arsenal from Nieuw Woensel. The lad was until recently working in the DAF trucks factory until he got the call from Mr. Windsor.
“I was delighted,” he said. “If it had been Spurs I would have been reaching for the whisky and the pearl-handled revolver.”