Dislocations & Daydreams

Subdued Autumnal-type tidings, cottaging crew-mates.

I’ve been taking time out from pie-eyeing all the glad-ragged polonies mewling and gassing along North End Road, to ponder the strange and raggedy start to our season.

I spent much of yesterday idling by the parapet at the mid-point of Mr Bazalgette’s beautiful bridge, gazing most of the day long into that eternal tide.

It’s a unique set-up, and that’s no lie, what with having a church poised at either end. Yet, despite this reassuring symmetry, I was feeling a tad dislocated, as is the way with some of our players’ limbs at the moment.

Stripping fibrous strands from a stick of celery and letting the wind lift them from my fingers, I watched them see-saw down into the ebbing flow beneath. As I did so, I wondered within my adolescent bean if our fortunes were going to be the same: unpredictable and inconsistent, prey to sly-eyed forces beyond our control.

Have the Fates formed an anti-Fulham federation? Are they, clad in luminous shirts (you know the ones), whispering viciously even now as they plot to undo Mr. Lawrie’s grand plan?

Or, will that very plan be shown to be little more than “sound and fury, signifying nothing”?

The screech of a number 14 arrested my reverie, and prevented (hallelujah!) the formation of yet another tawdry metaphor for you to negotiate.

Enough! I challenged myself. There’s been too much dwelling in penny-farthing hells, too much belly-aching, and too much hangdogging around here.

So, grasp the nettle and follow me to far-off Aston. And when we win, I’ll be standing you all a slice of cob and a celebratory quaff of tar water.

As sure as shallots, I’ll see you there!

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!