No football for a fortnight, fellow Fulham followers! How you may collectively kvetch and bristle at such starvations.
But like Miss Khan, I feel for you, and like two Chuck Woods, fourteen days is too long.
It’s been a football fast and like flip am I famished.
So, where have I been during this fallow, mid-game slump?
Investigating the subtle differences between a gilet, a jerkin, a bib and a tabard?
Ankle-paddling in the Quaggy?
No, my friends; when not ricocheting around like a flippered pinball amongst the hectoring hustle and bartering bustle of the market-day melee, I’ve been moping away amid the Fulhamish demimonde.
Late last evening, I found a crust of Bombardier pie on the corner of Crabtree Lane and Rainville Road. In fact, it was right on the very threshold where our celebrated realm of SW6 goes to-to-toe with that of our neighbour, W6.
Was this an epicurean revision of the beating of the bounds? Have the locals taken postcode pride to a gang-like level, and started marking out their territory with the plate-scrapings of old repasts?
Perhaps they’ve also been dipping their pinkies into some arcane psychogeographic chowder before flicking all manner of protective karmic spells around their manor, in an intra-community xenophobic hoedown?
Or did some late-night, loud-mouthed dipso, whiskied to the gills, simply discard it whilst reeling sideways across the street into an unyielding lamppost, sublimely unaware of the administrative ley-line he was trampling upon, and the connivings his behaviour might trigger within this eternally nonplussed noggin?
These rum conundrums befuddled and bewitched me as I loped off towards Stevenage Road for a last lingering nighty night.
Fortunately it’s a finely-tailored fact, that when such convolutions create havoc ‘neath me little stovepipe, one simple glimpse of Mr. Leitch’s listed brickwork soothes the psyche, and readies me for a gentle reclining into the arms of Mr. Morpheus.
Ma said there would be days like these. And like cribbins there was!
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
Frying Pans & Felons
Two-one.
One-two.
Two-in-one. Two for the price of one. Two become one.
Curse that squalid combination in all it’s manifestations, eh, Black and Whiters? Together, it’s been no less than a hex on our season thus far.
But, negative mathematical karma aside, last Saturday came and it went, and that’s a fully-upholstered fact.
Despite the sadness of stepping outside the boundaries of my beautiful SW6 for a day, me and my brogues limped into Aston with a cheerful aspect.
With time in hand, I sat down in the park by the ground to savour a pre-match spread; a tart blackberry sherbet, and a chive and parsnip pasty done my palate proud. It was mildly idyllic save for the M6 droning away over my shoulder.
Mid-tucker, an elderly fellow wandered past (be-suited, and smart as shoeshine he was), and nodded a greeting. He had the beginnings of a dowager’s hump, it’s true, but for eighty years old he was sprightly and bright enough to be the envy of all of us thruppeny squirts.
He stepped off the path and wandered over for a spot of chin music.
On learning of my London leaning, he recounted how he once lived in Stoke Newington and was married to one of the Christies.
My noggin creaked and groaned as it tried to place the name. No! Surely not! Your wife wasn’t related to that murderous wrong ‘un from Rillington Place, I asked him?
No, he said, Christie’s that world famous auction house dynasty. Oh well, you must be quids in then mister, I thought, hastily scribbling a begging letter behind my back.
The damn and blast of it is, that he didn’t find out his wife had the keys to the vault ‘til after they’d separated. Going once, going twice…a lifetime of regret sold to the dapper gentleman with the stoop!
He also related how he had once worked in The Castle on City Road and, following a bit of a hoo-ha involving the Kray twins, turfed the monozygotic maulers out and sent them packing all the way back to Valance Road, despite frantic mimes from the landlord to the contrary. What a terror!
Talking of villains, that stadium of theirs was like nothing more than one big frying pan, weren’t it, my overcooked chums. I kept expecting a giant-sized Ainsley Harriot to suddenly loom up over the Holte End, and toss in a touch of Tabaso.
And what was cooking in that pan (apart from us Cottagers lined up around the edge like sizzling little shallots), but one enormous footballing curate’s egg.
How can our mighty boys be so fluent, so imposing, and so tenacious for a spell, and then a single segment of orange later, become so gossamer-thin, so ephemeral, and so infuriatingly will-o’-the-wisp?
That’s a quandary to ponder, if ever I met one.
And ponder it I did as I stood there, post-defeat, ‘neath that incessant Birmingham sun, getting slowly casseroled whilst waiting for one of the two omnibuses provided to escort a near stadium-full of souls back to the city centre.
And tho’ the scene indeed resembled something Biblical, the feeding of the five thousand it weren’t.
With that in mind, and if not before then after, I’ll see you for the joust with Jolly’s boys at the weekend.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
One-two.
Two-in-one. Two for the price of one. Two become one.
Curse that squalid combination in all it’s manifestations, eh, Black and Whiters? Together, it’s been no less than a hex on our season thus far.
But, negative mathematical karma aside, last Saturday came and it went, and that’s a fully-upholstered fact.
Despite the sadness of stepping outside the boundaries of my beautiful SW6 for a day, me and my brogues limped into Aston with a cheerful aspect.
With time in hand, I sat down in the park by the ground to savour a pre-match spread; a tart blackberry sherbet, and a chive and parsnip pasty done my palate proud. It was mildly idyllic save for the M6 droning away over my shoulder.
Mid-tucker, an elderly fellow wandered past (be-suited, and smart as shoeshine he was), and nodded a greeting. He had the beginnings of a dowager’s hump, it’s true, but for eighty years old he was sprightly and bright enough to be the envy of all of us thruppeny squirts.
He stepped off the path and wandered over for a spot of chin music.
On learning of my London leaning, he recounted how he once lived in Stoke Newington and was married to one of the Christies.
My noggin creaked and groaned as it tried to place the name. No! Surely not! Your wife wasn’t related to that murderous wrong ‘un from Rillington Place, I asked him?
No, he said, Christie’s that world famous auction house dynasty. Oh well, you must be quids in then mister, I thought, hastily scribbling a begging letter behind my back.
The damn and blast of it is, that he didn’t find out his wife had the keys to the vault ‘til after they’d separated. Going once, going twice…a lifetime of regret sold to the dapper gentleman with the stoop!
He also related how he had once worked in The Castle on City Road and, following a bit of a hoo-ha involving the Kray twins, turfed the monozygotic maulers out and sent them packing all the way back to Valance Road, despite frantic mimes from the landlord to the contrary. What a terror!
Talking of villains, that stadium of theirs was like nothing more than one big frying pan, weren’t it, my overcooked chums. I kept expecting a giant-sized Ainsley Harriot to suddenly loom up over the Holte End, and toss in a touch of Tabaso.
And what was cooking in that pan (apart from us Cottagers lined up around the edge like sizzling little shallots), but one enormous footballing curate’s egg.
How can our mighty boys be so fluent, so imposing, and so tenacious for a spell, and then a single segment of orange later, become so gossamer-thin, so ephemeral, and so infuriatingly will-o’-the-wisp?
That’s a quandary to ponder, if ever I met one.
And ponder it I did as I stood there, post-defeat, ‘neath that incessant Birmingham sun, getting slowly casseroled whilst waiting for one of the two omnibuses provided to escort a near stadium-full of souls back to the city centre.
And tho’ the scene indeed resembled something Biblical, the feeding of the five thousand it weren’t.
With that in mind, and if not before then after, I’ll see you for the joust with Jolly’s boys at the weekend.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Thursday, 23 August 2007
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!
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!
Friday, 10 August 2007
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!
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!
Tuesday, 31 July 2007
Slingshots & Steptoes
My fairest Cottaging cousins, I trust you’ll be dragging your exquisite corpses out of your local brandy shops and joining me this coming Friday, as we set about shooting a few hoops?
See, following a well-meaning, but rather bewildering ear-bending about shepherds’ bushes, public conveniences, and back alleys, Ma’s granted me the keys to the city (well, the White one, anyways).
It’s a must-see, ain’t it, what with Mr Sanchez recently enjoying one of Chairman Mo’s glorious golden showers. Such largesse, deployed as it has been with keen managerial acumen, and bullish business dealing, has provided us with a spanking set of new players to ogle. They might even be good!
The leading question at this particular time is, will we be parading cheeky, simian-featured Mr Cook in front of his only recently ex-employers? Won’t that be peculiar for the fellow. It’ll be a bit like toddling off to Mr Tjinder’s corner shop to buy a stale tuppeny starver, only to meet yourself on your doorstep upon your return.
So, yes, I’ll be attending, and it’s a bet safe as houses that my Crombie pockets are gonna be packed with kiwis and bruised plums, ripe for lobbing. I’ll even be using my newest silk fogle as a slingshot, if the locals get uppity.
And once my intimate fruitery has been exhausted, I’ll be pelting all those grimy-collared steptoes with turns of phrase, figures of speech and all manner of pithy rejoinders.
It’s gonna be a massacre of thesaurus-type proportions!
In fact, if you keep your glazzes open, post-victory, you might witness me fizzing past the old Palais (R.I.P.), hanging grim and death-like to the bumper of a speeding saloon, with a set of sofa casters lashed to my brogues.
I need to race home and retire early, see, as I’ve a promise to keep to Miss Wetherby (next-door-but-one) on Saturday morning; she’s asked me to rake over her smallholding. I don’t know what cribbins that entails, but she said that me tufnells could come undone, and me hair could end up parted on the opposite side to when I got up.
With such queerness to consider, I’ll see you all on Friday.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
See, following a well-meaning, but rather bewildering ear-bending about shepherds’ bushes, public conveniences, and back alleys, Ma’s granted me the keys to the city (well, the White one, anyways).
It’s a must-see, ain’t it, what with Mr Sanchez recently enjoying one of Chairman Mo’s glorious golden showers. Such largesse, deployed as it has been with keen managerial acumen, and bullish business dealing, has provided us with a spanking set of new players to ogle. They might even be good!
The leading question at this particular time is, will we be parading cheeky, simian-featured Mr Cook in front of his only recently ex-employers? Won’t that be peculiar for the fellow. It’ll be a bit like toddling off to Mr Tjinder’s corner shop to buy a stale tuppeny starver, only to meet yourself on your doorstep upon your return.
So, yes, I’ll be attending, and it’s a bet safe as houses that my Crombie pockets are gonna be packed with kiwis and bruised plums, ripe for lobbing. I’ll even be using my newest silk fogle as a slingshot, if the locals get uppity.
And once my intimate fruitery has been exhausted, I’ll be pelting all those grimy-collared steptoes with turns of phrase, figures of speech and all manner of pithy rejoinders.
It’s gonna be a massacre of thesaurus-type proportions!
In fact, if you keep your glazzes open, post-victory, you might witness me fizzing past the old Palais (R.I.P.), hanging grim and death-like to the bumper of a speeding saloon, with a set of sofa casters lashed to my brogues.
I need to race home and retire early, see, as I’ve a promise to keep to Miss Wetherby (next-door-but-one) on Saturday morning; she’s asked me to rake over her smallholding. I don’t know what cribbins that entails, but she said that me tufnells could come undone, and me hair could end up parted on the opposite side to when I got up.
With such queerness to consider, I’ll see you all on Friday.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Monday, 9 July 2007
Tiling & Tartlets
Well, well, and well, black and white brothers and sisters!
Although our transfer window is open, it seems as though almost no one and his uncle wants to defenestrate themselves in our direction!
So, while Mr Sanchez continues to schlep across the football desert in search of some footballing nomads what, like, might actually want to play for us, I’ve been on my knees at Miss Wetherby’s (next door but one), up to my cuff links in grout.
As a favour for letting me finger the knobs on her old Bakelite whenever our boys’ away matches are being broadcast on The National Wireless, I’ve been half-tiling her scullery.
In black and white, of course.
Thing is, pals, whenever the aroma of her freshly-baked lemon-zest tartlets mingles with the pungent tang of tile-paste, I can feel myself going giddy sideways. I start to think I’m in the changing rooms at the Cottage, and before I know it I’m smearing adhesive all over me little limbs like linament, and executing star jumps, banging me bonce on the bare light bulb! It’s like playing truant from common sense school.
It’s hard work, and sure to leave me on the far side of fagged, but it beats flogging hand-made knick-knacks on Ma’s stall, and that’s not even the brother-in-law of a lie.
Anyways, I’m sure that soon enough, some of Mr Harrods Al Fayed’s hard-earned tourist cash will be flowing out from one of his offshores, in exchange for another willing new recruit.
Until then, turn the corner for SW6, and do-si-do your partners.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Although our transfer window is open, it seems as though almost no one and his uncle wants to defenestrate themselves in our direction!
So, while Mr Sanchez continues to schlep across the football desert in search of some footballing nomads what, like, might actually want to play for us, I’ve been on my knees at Miss Wetherby’s (next door but one), up to my cuff links in grout.
As a favour for letting me finger the knobs on her old Bakelite whenever our boys’ away matches are being broadcast on The National Wireless, I’ve been half-tiling her scullery.
In black and white, of course.
Thing is, pals, whenever the aroma of her freshly-baked lemon-zest tartlets mingles with the pungent tang of tile-paste, I can feel myself going giddy sideways. I start to think I’m in the changing rooms at the Cottage, and before I know it I’m smearing adhesive all over me little limbs like linament, and executing star jumps, banging me bonce on the bare light bulb! It’s like playing truant from common sense school.
It’s hard work, and sure to leave me on the far side of fagged, but it beats flogging hand-made knick-knacks on Ma’s stall, and that’s not even the brother-in-law of a lie.
Anyways, I’m sure that soon enough, some of Mr Harrods Al Fayed’s hard-earned tourist cash will be flowing out from one of his offshores, in exchange for another willing new recruit.
Until then, turn the corner for SW6, and do-si-do your partners.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Tuesday, 3 July 2007
Hunger & Hallucinations
Comely greetings, my charming cottaging kindreds, despatched roundly from yours truly as he foot-drags his sorry way across the off-season hinterland.
Are you, like me, a little hungry?
No, I don’t mean I’m aching for some belly timber. Around this market, there’s always a kumquat to suck on, if you give the right trader the wink. And, at the day’s death, there’s always a warm stubby of Super Malt from Mr Tjinder in the corner shop.
No, good friends, I am hungry for football.
So, what have I been doing then, during this gloomy hiatus? Engaging in the hugger-mugger of international finance? Consumer-testing gas umbrellas? No, I’ve been flexing my leather uppers, skulking endlessly around the avenues of this glorious parish: the Gowans, the Ringmers, the Hestercombes, but always, always ending up back at the gates of our beloved ground.
Have you, like me, found yourself going five fathoms past doolally with it all?
Yes, I can press my face against those gates, half-close my eyes, and kid myself within my noggin that I can see a fully-restored Mr Bullard, scrawny and liquid-waisted, executing exquisite fouettés before block DL, bedazzling his lumpen, dreary-eyed opponents.
But I want more than a penny peep on the palace pier. I want the whole shebang, the entire oeuvre, the complete sha-la-la. I want some full-on horizontal refreshments with a football flavour.
Face it, fellow Fulhamers, without football, life is little more than a loosely-tangled hairball of fripperies and bagatelles. A farrago of distractions and empty asides.
But, like Ms Ross, I’m still waiting: waiting in vain, waiting for the man, waiting in the waiting room.
Like some Beckett decrepit, waiting, waiting, waiting…
Once underway, a season gives us structure, don’t it? It gives our meagre existences a shape, a framework on which to hang our mundane mitherings, and our duty-bound, day-to-day dealings. Imminent fixtures on the calendar can punctuate our emptiness, can’t they, like little ships of hope bobbing on the horizon of our subconscious. Thirty-eight reasons to carry on living.
Now I’ve handed over my craftily-earned cutter, I can’t wait to get my adolescent luppers on that freshly-minted Season Ticket. I’ll be there at Mr Wenger’s Marvellous Soccer Theme Park for the season bully-off in my best three and nines and, believe me chums, when that inaugural whistle toots I’ll be as pleased as a punch-drunk pug on butter puffs.
Yes, I’m an eager beaver, and like fanny am I looking forward to sampling Mr Sanchez’s fresh fish; with the right purchases, the upcoming season becomes a shush bag of expectations. I dare say I can feel a pan-handle forming in the basket of me tufnells!
Anyway, we’ve all got time to pass, and some more than others, so I’m off to polish me new brogans.
Until then, go easy on the bark juice, consider foot-binding, and shake your angry fists at killjoys and cheap jacks.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Are you, like me, a little hungry?
No, I don’t mean I’m aching for some belly timber. Around this market, there’s always a kumquat to suck on, if you give the right trader the wink. And, at the day’s death, there’s always a warm stubby of Super Malt from Mr Tjinder in the corner shop.
No, good friends, I am hungry for football.
So, what have I been doing then, during this gloomy hiatus? Engaging in the hugger-mugger of international finance? Consumer-testing gas umbrellas? No, I’ve been flexing my leather uppers, skulking endlessly around the avenues of this glorious parish: the Gowans, the Ringmers, the Hestercombes, but always, always ending up back at the gates of our beloved ground.
Have you, like me, found yourself going five fathoms past doolally with it all?
Yes, I can press my face against those gates, half-close my eyes, and kid myself within my noggin that I can see a fully-restored Mr Bullard, scrawny and liquid-waisted, executing exquisite fouettés before block DL, bedazzling his lumpen, dreary-eyed opponents.
But I want more than a penny peep on the palace pier. I want the whole shebang, the entire oeuvre, the complete sha-la-la. I want some full-on horizontal refreshments with a football flavour.
Face it, fellow Fulhamers, without football, life is little more than a loosely-tangled hairball of fripperies and bagatelles. A farrago of distractions and empty asides.
But, like Ms Ross, I’m still waiting: waiting in vain, waiting for the man, waiting in the waiting room.
Like some Beckett decrepit, waiting, waiting, waiting…
Once underway, a season gives us structure, don’t it? It gives our meagre existences a shape, a framework on which to hang our mundane mitherings, and our duty-bound, day-to-day dealings. Imminent fixtures on the calendar can punctuate our emptiness, can’t they, like little ships of hope bobbing on the horizon of our subconscious. Thirty-eight reasons to carry on living.
Now I’ve handed over my craftily-earned cutter, I can’t wait to get my adolescent luppers on that freshly-minted Season Ticket. I’ll be there at Mr Wenger’s Marvellous Soccer Theme Park for the season bully-off in my best three and nines and, believe me chums, when that inaugural whistle toots I’ll be as pleased as a punch-drunk pug on butter puffs.
Yes, I’m an eager beaver, and like fanny am I looking forward to sampling Mr Sanchez’s fresh fish; with the right purchases, the upcoming season becomes a shush bag of expectations. I dare say I can feel a pan-handle forming in the basket of me tufnells!
Anyway, we’ve all got time to pass, and some more than others, so I’m off to polish me new brogans.
Until then, go easy on the bark juice, consider foot-binding, and shake your angry fists at killjoys and cheap jacks.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
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