Manchester & Mannequins

It’s the morning of a Manchester evening, my Cottaging cheerios.
And despite the innate glories of a south west six existence, I feel a miasma of foreboding looming o’er us all.

Even a beetle-headed ninnyhammer like me recognises that pickings tonight are likely to be decidedly slim. No, I won’t be expecting a flurry of pocket-sized epiphanies to be igniting within my noggin during the course of the game; even with Mr. Sanchez’s assertion that our heroes are to “have-a-go.”

Now, I might proceed on knock-knees, but I don’t have gambler’s elbows. Nevertheless, if our boys conspire to overcome those mercenary-headed reds, I will personally accept a forfeit.

At first twinklings tomorrow morning, I will construct a life-sized effigy of The Sanch from the seventeen yards of soufflé gauze and two pair of worsted stockings that I recently purloined from a doorway on Racton Road.

I will then slice open the back of my hand-crafted mannequin with a keen–bladed Stanley and climb inside. I then pledge to spend the rest of the day terrorising the market like a kind of inverse Santa, an anti-Christmas if you will, roaring at the little ‘uns, and lobbing Battersea Bundles at all the bleary-eyed backchatters who doubted Lawrie’s logic.

Anyway, I’m off for a steaming hot slice of Hare Pie Scramble and a Conny Wabble chaser to calm the nerves.

I’ll then set about adjusting my braces extra tight in readiness for tonight’s game.

See you on the other side, mateys!

Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!