Steed & Stokey

No lingering, Fulham messmates. The day’s on fire!

Enough with humbugging and all associated slapdashery, enough with being a fly in the jug, a snit, and a foot-dragging flibbertigibbet.

Well, Mr and Mrs Tottenham’s children, they showed themselves to be nothing more than a bunch of sickly, weak-limbed, lightweights, didn't they. A gaggle of nanny-suckling parlour-soldiers, lead by Miserable Moan-a-Minute Mr Jolly, a modern-day Mr Pugwash if ever I saw one.

Meanwhile, our boys, lead by Corporeal Brown (that pallor!), cast vexations and grumblings aside, and demonstrated what a limp chimera of a top team his ex-employers really are. Furthermore, they made it more than crystal to Mr Steed that his career choice might not be the sublime path to glory that he might have previously imagined. Poor lamb.

And whilst we were unable to partake of a waltz with lady victory, we did at least get to ask her for a dance. So, before we potter off towards our clash with Old Stokey, a final, heartfelt “hurrah!” for Mr Montella, and a suitably baritone “booo” for Mr Jan’s butter fingers.

Anyways, that’s enough for charm school my Fulham friends. If you don’t see me this next Saturday coming, I’ll sure as sugar see you! Now I’m off to meet Ma from her cleaning job at the local church, and to shake my fist at Old Scratch whilst I’m there.

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!