Sparklers & Squibs

Quit cabbaging, dozing associates of mine, I’m pregnant!

Pregnant with anticipation that is!

Did you really think I’d casually scuppered eons of evolution with a mere semantic bauble!

The blue touch-paper of the forthcoming season is about to be lit and I, for one, am not about to retire to a safe distance. Fertilised or not, I’m gonna be cheering for two, and that’s not even close to a lie.

I’m keen as kippers to get my sticky mittens on Mr Sanchez’s newly-purchased little sparklers. Will they be exciting sixpenny fizzers, or the same old damp squibs?

Can I now limp game-wards with some freshly-laundered hope in my ticket pocket? Arrive with renewed promise reflecting in the gleaming, elbow-greased, toes of my brogans?

Whatever the prospect, my favourite half-lined trousers will be there this Sunday coming, and I’ll make pig-sure I’m inside ‘em, dressed and ready for the set-to with Wenger’s Originals.

Once inside, I’ll be carousing around the aisles in my steam-fresh, cadet-grey whipple hat. I’ll be freely distributing punnets of hand-picked, locally-grown, nouns and verbs from within my trusty tan leather valise, for you all to construct your own, personalised, pro-Fulhamer chants with.

If things start to turn a little queer late in the game, I’ll have an emergency supply of potent expletives ready to pass around for you to curse the footballin’ gods with. Handle them with care though - you might wake the gooners!

So prepare yourself, chums; it’s time to pull the ring finger of fate.

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!