Saturday 30 December 2006

Walham Green & Gumption

Smite my giddy sides, Cottaging colleagues, it’s derby day!

Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I’ve spent most of this festive shebang using an antique monocle that I found in father’s sock drawer to torment the neighbour’s bloodhound. It’s driven the poor thing to distraction it has, what with his lazy eye and all. He’s been thinking he’s on doggy acid or summat. Perfectly ripe entertainment though, despite the unremitting cruelty to one of man’s best friends.

Talking of amusement, today is, not that you need tellin’, the day of our visit to that soulless temple of avarice, that vacuous shrine to retail, bulging with shaven-headed consumer-monkeys. Yes, our mighty black and whiters shall be visiting the old Walham Green Novotel Mega Village.

And now, more than ever, my good chums, is our chance to beat them, what with their catastrophic injury dilemma leaving their squad more threadbare than my 5 year old tufnells. In fact, one wouldn’t be surprised to see the old collection plate being passed around prior to bully-off this afternoon, so on their uppers are they over there.

However, despite the shining superiority of our squad, today is the day when nothing less than gumption is required. Yes, that’s right: gumption.

Mr Cookie will no doubt be ensuring that the sleeves will be rolled up on the shirts that are being played for, that the fellows inside them are men, and that as men they are standing up and being counted. Shifts will be put in all over the pitch.

I’ll be positively chuffed if that turns out to be the case in evidence, but so long as I get to witness some gumption I’ll be as happy as a sparrow in privet, and that’s no fib.

Ole, ole, ole and you know the rest, my gaysexual-friendly chums!

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!

Friday 29 December 2006

Richard Jobson & Rejoicing

Merry Queuedrue-mas, Fulhamer pal-chums!

Oh what joy it was to have been welcomed “Into The Valley” by Mr Jobson and his Skidders, only to witness Mr Pards and his lame-duck 'Red Army' apologists get denied at the very death.

It was a right superior tonic for one with a selection box of issues to be going on with at this present time and all.

See, here I am, fellow black and whiters, loitering in the festive hinterland betwixt Crimbletide and the forthcoming nouvelle annus, and up to my eyebrows I am in bandages, ointments, poultices, and tinctures. Why you ask? Why am I doing a ‘Stars In Their Eyes’ aping of Florence The Nightingale?

Well, Cottaging chums, the Maurice household is a trifle poorly at present. Father Maurice had one too many ‘knock-‘em-downs’ in his local booze boutique, ‘The Divide And Conker’, and got knocked down by the cast-iron pillar he walked into noggin-first. As a result he’s laid up in his crib with a ‘strangulated narnia’, or somesuch fancy-dan ailment. Ma, meanwhile, supped a tin-bath full of Dick's Advocaat on Christmas Day, and now has a ‘muzzy izzet’, whatever doolally that may be!

Anyway, back to the sick, ill, and terminally-bemused, as Mr Cookie might be saying at this time!

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!

Monday 25 December 2006

Shame & Stale Pastry

Holy Last Temptations of JC, Fulham mates!

I’ve just returned from church. Everyone was feeling right Christian charitable, and the copper was hitting the pewter, and that’s no lie. On top of that, the doo-doo’s was a-hittin’ the fan big-time stylee, as the modern children say.

See, on arriving for her part-time, menial, sub-minimum wage cleaning job yesterday morning, Ma’s caught the vicar doing the Abotts Bromley Horn Dance with his superannuated candle supplier, wearing only his ceremonial anointing robes and a pair of turquoise Speedo’s! Shocking ain’t the word!

As a direct, retributional consequence, he’s spent the day in the stocks, being pelted with stale lardy buns by me and my local chums. What a hoot!

Anyway, look out for me on this next Wednesday coming, as I shall be parading up and down outside the Valley, with his cossie a-tucked into the top pocket of my junior-sized Crombie. To folks passing-by it’s going to look like a right expensive silk ‘kerchief – only me and you are going to know different. So keep schtum!

Yes, indeed, it was little me that caught the disgraced churchman as he tried to flee over the fence. The local bobby giving me the soiled swimmers as a kind of reward for “performing a public service act”.

Well, come Wednesday we gonna bum Mr Pardew and his slack Addicks right out of SE7. So, winkles out, boys!

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!