Wembley & Wapping

Come, come, my glum chums. I’m in the dumps too.

In fact, I feel like I’ve been debagged on Lady Parson’s Stairs, them slimy risers at Wapping.

You see, following Mr Sanchez’s explicit tub-thumping regarding our imminent cup-hugging glory, I’d already commenced, in intimate cahoots with my tailor, sourcing cloth for a new pair of tufnells in which to promenade up Wembley Way next May two thousand ‘n’ eight. They were going to be in the camp colours, an exquisite herringbone affair, spun from the finest Super 100s. Strap ‘n’ buckle side adjusters and all.

Then we go and play some giddy-eyed formation against a team of pub-lumbering no-necks, and a significant spoke gets put in our Wembley wheel of fortune.

With such an approach, we had about as much chance of winning as
we did of cycling to Canvey in a custard hat.

Lacking wherewithal and insight as I do, I decided to elicit the opinion of market-notorious, cryptic-quipping grouch and stall-holder Mr Jewry.

How, from his lofty-minded realm, did he survey the Coleman-Sanchez continuum?

After a moment of synchronised introspection and crotch-scratching, he replied, shipping forecast-like, “moderate or poor, becoming mainly good.”

Well, by faint praise be damned, Mr Lawrie!

Surely, I suggested, you’ve been moved by his measured articulacy, his reasoned eloquence, and by his uniformly effulgent loquaciousness?

“Fine words butter no parsnips,” he batted back.

And I think he may have had the beginnings of a point. Whether he has the endings of one too, only the unfurling of the season will reveal.

For now though, we need to collectively cease bellyaching, hand-wringing, finger-wagging, and eye-rolling. Because we all know that this coming Saturday weekend we share pasture with our bluetongued, bovine neighbours. Them what’s currently squatting on our land.

If you’re attending be sure to take your umbrella, for if their shoddy, faux-mourning continues, the crocodile tears are gonna be raining down from every corner ‘pon our proud little black and white bonces.

So, are we gonna clean their clocks, or are we about to undergo an unholy doughnutting?

If we trade in another lettuce-limp display, it might only be praying to the god of produce that delivers us buttered parsnips.

With such conjecture hanging morosely in the air, I for one will be spending from now until then kneeling on a pretend-grass prayer mat in front of the first fruit and vegetable stall I come to.

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!