Delilah & Delight

What a giddy to-do, cottaging colleagues of mine!

There I was yesterday, loitering around the North End Road in the pre-match hinterland, gazing idly at the assorted denizens drifting in and out of The Goose, just feeling the eagerness and excitedness start to muster in me puppytooth tufnells. When, out of the market-based hubbub, up loped a clot of clumsy-eyed Stoke City miscreants oinking and guffawing in some strange guttural tongue.

Now, The Goose might not be the most voguish of booze boutiques: modern? family-friendly? customer-facing? You jest, Fulham friends! I mean, they don’t even have latrines for lady-flavoured folk. Those that can’t contain themselves have to squat over an empty pickled herring jar under a lean-to in the windswept back yard, nylons bunched around their ankles.

Anyway, despite this rough and readiness, even these poxed and palsied potters were considered beyond the Pale Ale, and within seconds they were royally turfed out by Mr Dave the brick-built barman from Battersea: 16 stone, hands like shovels, and reigning South London Ginsters pasty-eating champion.

As they sloped off, crestfallen and sheepish-like, I added to their indignity by pelting them with a paw-full of rock hard sprouts I’d been keeping in the pocket of my midnight blue covert (velvet collar, thanks for asking) for just such an occurrence.

Later on, in a kind of symmetrical and poetic fashion, it squared up in my mind that their performance on the pitch once they’d come up against the mighty black and whiters was equally paltry. What a busted flush they turned out to be all ‘round, from the fans through to the players. “Delilah” be damned! They couldn’t throw a wig on a weathercock from half a shrinking yard, even with a head start!

Kudos and credit to Mr Cookie of course, who now seems to be assembling a group of foot-soldiers that seems right intimate with each other and who would no doubt scrub each others backs in the shower for less than half a farthing. That’s what you call loyalty in this day an age I reckon. Talking of soldierly, strictly-heterosexual, brotherliness, such qualities will no doubt be needed this coming Tuesday evening for the War on Warnock. Pistols cocked, boys!

Until next time, if not before.

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!