Since last we corresponded, dear hearts, it seems that the sun is peeping out from behind the clouds, maidens are throwing off their garments with joy and marshmallow is growing upon the trees in the parks of London town.
For Woolwich have won three games of foot-ball in a row.
At first, we turn to West Bromwich, a town far worse than east, north or south Bromwich, all of which are horrible pits of despair and decline. Upon scanning the faces in the crowd at The Hawthorns I was struck by the grotesquery on show and feared that I should be rendered blind, such was the hideousness of their visages. And then I remembered we have Stoke away tomorrow and pulled myself together, as one needs all the mettle one can muster for fear of accidentally alighting one’s gaze upon the fearsome skin-masks of their womenfolk and the sick-making features of the males of the species. But more of Stoke eftsoons we have addressed the particulars of our visit to the wasteland of England.
Admittedly, West Brom have not scored a league goal for 300 minutes. They are, to coin a phrase, shittier than shit. They are shittier than the main shit sewer of central London, ‘Old Shitty’, when it is particularly full of shit. However, coming as the fixture did for Woolwich, at what turned about to be a terrible run of games, this had ‘nervous away draw’ written all over it. The Arsenal were somewhat low on confidence. They were as nervous as a man who had consumed a curry the night before and has just read a newspaper report about the standard of the restaurant’s kitchen, and is currently modelling white underwear whilst suppressing a cough. As nervous as a long-tailed hound in a room of rocking chairs, etc. etc.
It was to be That Chap, our Brazilian Wonderboy Welé, with a splendid Noggin-Bobbler on the hour mark to send the gargoyles of the Midlands weeping into their terrible beer. The goal and win were not the only positives. We saw the return of Larry Costerly, miserly sentinel, abaft. And how welcome he was. Sturdy, aggressive, uncompromising – everything we despise in opposition players is there in abundance in Larry. We await Matthew ‘Matthew’ Matthews, the ‘Geordie Gigolo’ and our wonderful wing-back who has been recuperating in his South Shields home. He is now up to 60 Capstan Full Strength a day and therefore almost match fit, and we when he is, Marry! But we shall have our complete fighting unit ready to repel invaders once more!
Other notable moments were a) the return of Brigadier Oliver Goring-Hildred, a man who has cured several thousand Arsenal supporters of their heterosexuality, and whose masculinity means he scoffs at suggestions that the team is only big enough for one striker. He welcomes Welé with a bear hug that goes on just a tad too long and a manly tweak of a buttock. And b) The Second Coming of St. John Cousins, a man who is so precise in his passing that he has received requests from the clock-makers of Switzerland to use his God-given genius to check the accuracy of the world’s best timepieces.
And so to the potentially slippery visit of St Mary’s Church of England Young Men’s Association to The Emirates. A team who should be applauded for not only taking the piss out of Liverpool but demanding that Brendan Rodgers himself, the Anfield Apple-John, drives a ten-ton tanker of piss down the M6 to Southampton. Not much to add here apart from that Whizzbang Saunders is a god in human form who is briefly walking among us and will shortly ascend to sit at the right had of the father. I love him dearly. And it was he – who else – who released the pressure valve on 89 minutes by poking away a lovely little cutback from Ramsara for the late, late win. Uproar at The Emirates! Gardyloo!
The joy may be short-lived, however, for erelong the chaps will be requiring inoculations for their trip to the mad-badlands of Stoke. Upon perusing the photographs of the crowd at The Shitannnia, one was struck by the aggressive unpleasantness of the womenfolk and one is tempted to comment – and please forgive the ripe language – but Stoke Chaps please. A dog is not for Christmas, it’s your wife.
Until next time,
The Gent
