Fingers & Forecasts

Feelin’ Wear-y, Fulham friends?

Has the Stadium of Light left you a little darker in the soul?

Early this morning, I was helping Miss Wetherby (next door-but-one) de-gunge her griddle. She says that naïve fingers are more sensitive to small grooves. She was certainly all smiles afterwards.

Her antiquated Bakelite was rattling and droning in the corner, puffing out the weather forecast. I copped an ear:

“A deep depression over Craven Cottage, remaining steady, with a new low expected tea-time Saturday.

Warnings of gales in Brompton Road proceeding menacingly towards SW6.

Team failing, moving slowly south, 18 to 20. Squally showers expected, occasional brightness. Managerial position emptying by December, future outlook changeable.”

Galled by this prognosis, I sloped off up to the market, which was fussily arranging it’s skirts for the coming day’s trading.

I collared arch-grump and market sage Mr Jewry, and relayed these ominous projections to him. Ever tetchy, he waved a dismissive currant pasty, and said: “supporting Fulham is like being trapped in a slowly-deflating dinghy, circling clockwise in the North Sea: Forties-Fisher-German Bight-Dogger, and repeat until sunk.”

Well, that’s talking in tongues down my street, and it sent my noggin into a bit of a tailspin, and that’s no fib.

So, finding all this flimsy humbugging too heavy for a pair of hopeful shoulders like mine, I slipped away, and went briskly on down to the Cottage to unburden myself.

As ever, upon arriving, the prospects improved. Newly gladdened, I set about projecting some positive tidings towards that delightful Johnny Stevenage stand, before depositing a few protective karmic charms by each of the turnstiles.

You could say that I’ve swathed that old place in a kind of psychic bubble-wrap that’s rendered it impervious to all the downbeats and wiseacres.

With these dependable measures in place, we’re all set and fair to deliver a right Royals beating on Saturday, and squarely debag those gloomy harbingers what’s pooping on our parade!

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!