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!