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!