Celebrations & Circumlocutions

Fellow great escapees of a black and white hue, concur without embarrassment or delay that being aligned to The Fulham Football Club is, at times, a pleasure akin to squatting on the very doorstep of Number 1, Heaven Place, dressed in one’s craftiest schmutter, whilst chomping nonchalantly on a freshly-baked Banana Inbetween from the Well Bread bakery.

Even I, playing fast and loose with Mr. Einstein’s enshrined decrees as I am wont to do, could not have conjured an ‘up’ from a ‘down’; but that is what our esteemed Mr. Hodgson somehow managed to achieve. And we are all, are we not, still feeling ourselves borne aloft on the balmy zephyr of exultation that emanated from that logic-defying feat.

So, my post-celebratory, premier-league-dwelling chums, where in the name of Mr. Murphy’s numinous noodle have I been?

Developing a steam-powered pencil-sharpener?

Playing Yahtzee! with the Glitter Band’s drum technician?

Wrong times two my chipper little sticklebacks.

But fret not, and quell your collective curiosity forthwith. Replace your foaming pints of wallop upon the nearest table, and allow your befuddled craniums to become becalmed.

For I continue to dwell, as I always will, within the Fulham demimonde. I cannot leave, and it cannot leave me.

The simple, copper-plated fact of it all, is that I’ve been nowhere of note, doing nothing noteworthy, not knowing nor caring what is not mine to negotiate. But that’s fine and I’m a little dandy: for it’s the more prosaic pursuits what throw the highlights of our little lives into such sharp relief, is it not?

Whilst your still bathing in the fragrant cloud of existential clarity that I’ve just expelled, I shall pencil in a little detail for the more bewildered amongst you.

Specifically, I‘ve been populating this typically barren between-season hinterland with my usual concerns: limping gamely along the glorious thoroughfares of this parish (Racton, Ringmer, Hestercombe – why, the very names chime) whilst seeking variegated detritus to sell in an illegal under-age fashion at Ma’s stall; throwing sprouting tubers and bruised Delbard Estivales at unwelcome market interlopers; and pining like an unlicked pup for the flower-seller’s daughter.

When not engaging in any or all of the above, I gad about in a dim and unguarded manner, aspiring to mirth and mischief with my like-witted pals. Polishing door-knockers for cash, admiring Miss Wetherby’s (next door-but-one) furbelow, and sabotaging understrappers from rival manors with cunning ruses.

But without doubt, the most fruitful excursion of recent weeks was on that singularly effulgent Sunday in May. The one that’s branded itself upon our memories forevermore. Me and my chuckle-headed pal, Lil’ Larkins, well, we jigged ourselves into a deranged, hyperventilating delirium in the garden of the Golden Lion that day. Fuelled by a bevy of bracing cordials, we fizzed like a brace of 5 year-olds dosed-up on ‘E’ numbers.

Afterwards we repaired, pleasantly spent, to Bishop’s Park. By now, my braces were sagging, and the Larkins’ whipple hat was flaccid from the absorption of a continuous rain of airborne ale, sent into orbit by the carousing throng.

But we didn’t care: we were in raptures.

Woozy in the afterglow, we spent a few shining hours constructing a life-sized effigy of the aforementioned Mr. H. from discarded cardboard clappers, right there in the shadow of the ground. It was a famous creation, fashioned in gratitude and respect, and if it survives the attentions of the local mutts, it could well become a pre-match shrine for the Cottage-bound faithful.

I know where I’ll be worshipping next season.

See you soon if not before!

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!