“The future’s made of virtual insanity.” That’s what he said.
This morning, all of a sudden like, whilst deep in a relegation-centred reverie, an unseen force lifted me up on to me tippy-toes. Violently. This sudden growth spurt was not by virtue of eating a fistful of baby spinach for breakfast, but as a result of Mr Jewry (at the next stall) a-twisting my ear‘ole between his thumb and forefinger whilst simultaneously grinding a whelk into the North End Road tarmac with the heel of his superannuated Loakes. Obstreperous bumpkin!
“The future’s made of virtual insanity”, he ejaculated whilst performing this grievous act.
Now, I may be little more than an honest cripple with a crafty aspect, but whatever the future is, in fact, made of, my immediate one will see me knock-kneeing it up the Holloway Road this coming Sunday afternoon. Not even Mr. Jay Kay is gonna stop me from doing that!
Of necessity, I shall be decidedly post-prandial, having had an apron full of belly timber, pre bully-off. I don’t know about you, but I find it difficult to cheer in the face of overwhelming odds on an empty stomach. P’raps I should eat the form book for lunch! That’ll be a superior remedy chums, killing, as it were, two sparrows with one stone.
Now, my most admirable black-and-white comrades, once inside that unholy corporate dustbowl, we may well be little more than the equivalent of a few sprats in a Sperm Whale’s gullet, but that’s no excuse for being shrinking scaredy-cats, or sickly, weak-limbed lightweights. We need gallons of spunk, spine, spirit, and steel. We must merge together, into a kind of seething amorphous mass, and will ourselves to become more than the sum of our parts. To make a sound that science can’t contain.
Whatever the flavour of the on-pitch shenanigans, however grisly in nature the goings-on in front of us, we must continue to rage regardless. Like oaks in a gale, like clocks in a thunderstorm.
We must inspire our fragile heroes to step out from under the shadow of underachievement, to liberate themselves, and to shake hands with greatness.
Because as we all know, friends: the mediocre are many but the prime number few.
So prepare yourself, one and all. As Mr. Kennedy may have once said: “ask not what your club can do for you; ask what you can do for your club.”
Now is the time to do it: let’s set the day on fire!
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Friday, 27 April 2007
Monday, 23 April 2007
Churchill & Consummation
Holy unconsummated desire, Fulham-minded mates of mine!
What was last Saturday just gone all about then? Hatfuls of sunshine, but precious little plunder.
It was what Mr Churchill might have called: “a fatal neutrality”.
To labour my metaphor from last week just a touch longer, Saturday was like romancing the woman of your dreams into bed, only to find out that it was your sister, and that the law of the land prevented you from progressing. Your pistol’s cocked, but the target’s moved.
I don’t know what we do with ourselves for the next week now. I can’t take much more of this 11-a-side hole-and-corner intrigue. I reckon Mr Dante could conjure up a more welcoming retreat than that which we have to occupy over the next few days.
I‘ve already spent a whole day moping around the church, whilst Ma freshened up the font with some tallow and beeswax. I was supposed to be helping her, placing some fresh rushes up the old rector’s passage, but my noggin just wasn’t working proper.
I kept drifting off into these spacious, left-handed reveries, where Mr Sanchez was forcing the players to undergo a kind of penitence, thrashing each other with fresh leeks, and poking each other in the eyes with sticks of celery. I know what your thinking: I’d been tea-leafing magic mushrooms from the hippy fella in the market. The ones he reckons are capable of making you see people what, like, aren’t really there. Well no, my suspicious ones, I hadn’t, but I reckon some of our players might have indulged a touch, what with their strange habit of passing the ball into places where the sober amongst us can’t see a dicky bird.
Anyway, you know I’d swap a skip full of shin plasters and the seat of my smartest puppy-tooth tufnells for us to survive this current episode. And I know you know.
“Wars are not won by evacuations”, the great man said. And I’m of a mind to agree with him.
In the meantime chums, lets keep our collective peckers up, and our upper lips resolutely stiffened.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
What was last Saturday just gone all about then? Hatfuls of sunshine, but precious little plunder.
It was what Mr Churchill might have called: “a fatal neutrality”.
To labour my metaphor from last week just a touch longer, Saturday was like romancing the woman of your dreams into bed, only to find out that it was your sister, and that the law of the land prevented you from progressing. Your pistol’s cocked, but the target’s moved.
I don’t know what we do with ourselves for the next week now. I can’t take much more of this 11-a-side hole-and-corner intrigue. I reckon Mr Dante could conjure up a more welcoming retreat than that which we have to occupy over the next few days.
I‘ve already spent a whole day moping around the church, whilst Ma freshened up the font with some tallow and beeswax. I was supposed to be helping her, placing some fresh rushes up the old rector’s passage, but my noggin just wasn’t working proper.
I kept drifting off into these spacious, left-handed reveries, where Mr Sanchez was forcing the players to undergo a kind of penitence, thrashing each other with fresh leeks, and poking each other in the eyes with sticks of celery. I know what your thinking: I’d been tea-leafing magic mushrooms from the hippy fella in the market. The ones he reckons are capable of making you see people what, like, aren’t really there. Well no, my suspicious ones, I hadn’t, but I reckon some of our players might have indulged a touch, what with their strange habit of passing the ball into places where the sober amongst us can’t see a dicky bird.
Anyway, you know I’d swap a skip full of shin plasters and the seat of my smartest puppy-tooth tufnells for us to survive this current episode. And I know you know.
“Wars are not won by evacuations”, the great man said. And I’m of a mind to agree with him.
In the meantime chums, lets keep our collective peckers up, and our upper lips resolutely stiffened.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Thursday, 19 April 2007
Tragedies & Trollopes
Thursday-shaped greetings, Fulham friends.
It may, indeed, be Thursday, but I say: enough of this dilly-dandering! The hour is, is it not, at hand. Or at least it will be come 3.00 this next Saturday coming.
A tall, thin gentleman from Ireland once mused: “The trouble with tragedy is the fuss it makes over life and death and other tuppeny aches”
Meanwhile, some shorter, less thin, and marginally less austere fellows once expounded: “Tragedy – when the feeling’s gone and you can’t go on.”
Whatever the great poets might have said about it, the question currently buzzin’ ‘round my noggin, Cottaging associates, is this one: are we about to enter into a slow-time waltz with Lady Tragedy? Are we about to slip ‘tween the bedclothes with Dame Disaster? Come Saturday tea-time will be collectively fingering the gusset of Madame Misfortune?
Or, and this is the twenty-bob poser, will we be gang-banging the Trollope of Triumph?
And if we are, will we, post-coitus, be gorging ourselves on the victuals of victory: to be specific, will we be eating SW6 out of turnip crudités and hare-pie scramble come Saturday evening?
I don’t know what you lot drape your languid frames in of a Sunday, but I, for one, don’t want to be spending this coming next one, mooching around the North End Road in my mourning jewellery, considering the pros and cons of watching our crestfallen, emasculated, black and whiters playing 22-man kickaround against Burnley next season.
Therefore, and to be perfectly blunt, now is not the time for indulging in fruitless chin music, or pondering how you narrowly missed a career as Yannick Noah’s foot masseuse. We need to have our eyes lined up on the prize, strutting shoulder to shoulder down the Stevenage, buttocks taut, and chins a-juttin’.
As Mr Dickens might say “Give it mouth!”
For one brief interlude, let’s put the inexpressible, unavoidable, malaise of human existence from our minds, and make it a glorious day, filled with sunshine and plunder.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
It may, indeed, be Thursday, but I say: enough of this dilly-dandering! The hour is, is it not, at hand. Or at least it will be come 3.00 this next Saturday coming.
A tall, thin gentleman from Ireland once mused: “The trouble with tragedy is the fuss it makes over life and death and other tuppeny aches”
Meanwhile, some shorter, less thin, and marginally less austere fellows once expounded: “Tragedy – when the feeling’s gone and you can’t go on.”
Whatever the great poets might have said about it, the question currently buzzin’ ‘round my noggin, Cottaging associates, is this one: are we about to enter into a slow-time waltz with Lady Tragedy? Are we about to slip ‘tween the bedclothes with Dame Disaster? Come Saturday tea-time will be collectively fingering the gusset of Madame Misfortune?
Or, and this is the twenty-bob poser, will we be gang-banging the Trollope of Triumph?
And if we are, will we, post-coitus, be gorging ourselves on the victuals of victory: to be specific, will we be eating SW6 out of turnip crudités and hare-pie scramble come Saturday evening?
I don’t know what you lot drape your languid frames in of a Sunday, but I, for one, don’t want to be spending this coming next one, mooching around the North End Road in my mourning jewellery, considering the pros and cons of watching our crestfallen, emasculated, black and whiters playing 22-man kickaround against Burnley next season.
Therefore, and to be perfectly blunt, now is not the time for indulging in fruitless chin music, or pondering how you narrowly missed a career as Yannick Noah’s foot masseuse. We need to have our eyes lined up on the prize, strutting shoulder to shoulder down the Stevenage, buttocks taut, and chins a-juttin’.
As Mr Dickens might say “Give it mouth!”
For one brief interlude, let’s put the inexpressible, unavoidable, malaise of human existence from our minds, and make it a glorious day, filled with sunshine and plunder.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Sunday, 28 January 2007
Delilah & Delight
What a giddy to-do, cottaging colleagues of mine!
There I was yesterday, loitering around the North End Road in the pre-match hinterland, gazing idly at the assorted denizens drifting in and out of The Goose, just feeling the eagerness and excitedness start to muster in me puppytooth tufnells. When, out of the market-based hubbub, up loped a clot of clumsy-eyed Stoke City miscreants oinking and guffawing in some strange guttural tongue.
Now, The Goose might not be the most voguish of booze boutiques: modern? family-friendly? customer-facing? You jest, Fulham friends! I mean, they don’t even have latrines for lady-flavoured folk. Those that can’t contain themselves have to squat over an empty pickled herring jar under a lean-to in the windswept back yard, nylons bunched around their ankles.
Anyway, despite this rough and readiness, even these poxed and palsied potters were considered beyond the Pale Ale, and within seconds they were royally turfed out by Mr Dave the brick-built barman from Battersea: 16 stone, hands like shovels, and reigning South London Ginsters pasty-eating champion.
As they sloped off, crestfallen and sheepish-like, I added to their indignity by pelting them with a paw-full of rock hard sprouts I’d been keeping in the pocket of my midnight blue covert (velvet collar, thanks for asking) for just such an occurrence.
Later on, in a kind of symmetrical and poetic fashion, it squared up in my mind that their performance on the pitch once they’d come up against the mighty black and whiters was equally paltry. What a busted flush they turned out to be all ‘round, from the fans through to the players. “Delilah” be damned! They couldn’t throw a wig on a weathercock from half a shrinking yard, even with a head start!
Kudos and credit to Mr Cookie of course, who now seems to be assembling a group of foot-soldiers that seems right intimate with each other and who would no doubt scrub each others backs in the shower for less than half a farthing. That’s what you call loyalty in this day an age I reckon. Talking of soldierly, strictly-heterosexual, brotherliness, such qualities will no doubt be needed this coming Tuesday evening for the War on Warnock. Pistols cocked, boys!
Until next time, if not before.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
There I was yesterday, loitering around the North End Road in the pre-match hinterland, gazing idly at the assorted denizens drifting in and out of The Goose, just feeling the eagerness and excitedness start to muster in me puppytooth tufnells. When, out of the market-based hubbub, up loped a clot of clumsy-eyed Stoke City miscreants oinking and guffawing in some strange guttural tongue.
Now, The Goose might not be the most voguish of booze boutiques: modern? family-friendly? customer-facing? You jest, Fulham friends! I mean, they don’t even have latrines for lady-flavoured folk. Those that can’t contain themselves have to squat over an empty pickled herring jar under a lean-to in the windswept back yard, nylons bunched around their ankles.
Anyway, despite this rough and readiness, even these poxed and palsied potters were considered beyond the Pale Ale, and within seconds they were royally turfed out by Mr Dave the brick-built barman from Battersea: 16 stone, hands like shovels, and reigning South London Ginsters pasty-eating champion.
As they sloped off, crestfallen and sheepish-like, I added to their indignity by pelting them with a paw-full of rock hard sprouts I’d been keeping in the pocket of my midnight blue covert (velvet collar, thanks for asking) for just such an occurrence.
Later on, in a kind of symmetrical and poetic fashion, it squared up in my mind that their performance on the pitch once they’d come up against the mighty black and whiters was equally paltry. What a busted flush they turned out to be all ‘round, from the fans through to the players. “Delilah” be damned! They couldn’t throw a wig on a weathercock from half a shrinking yard, even with a head start!
Kudos and credit to Mr Cookie of course, who now seems to be assembling a group of foot-soldiers that seems right intimate with each other and who would no doubt scrub each others backs in the shower for less than half a farthing. That’s what you call loyalty in this day an age I reckon. Talking of soldierly, strictly-heterosexual, brotherliness, such qualities will no doubt be needed this coming Tuesday evening for the War on Warnock. Pistols cocked, boys!
Until next time, if not before.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Monday, 22 January 2007
Steed & Stokey
No lingering, Fulham messmates. The day’s on fire!
Enough with humbugging and all associated slapdashery, enough with being a fly in the jug, a snit, and a foot-dragging flibbertigibbet.
Well, Mr and Mrs Tottenham’s children, they showed themselves to be nothing more than a bunch of sickly, weak-limbed, lightweights, didn't they. A gaggle of nanny-suckling parlour-soldiers, lead by Miserable Moan-a-Minute Mr Jolly, a modern-day Mr Pugwash if ever I saw one.
Meanwhile, our boys, lead by Corporeal Brown (that pallor!), cast vexations and grumblings aside, and demonstrated what a limp chimera of a top team his ex-employers really are. Furthermore, they made it more than crystal to Mr Steed that his career choice might not be the sublime path to glory that he might have previously imagined. Poor lamb.
And whilst we were unable to partake of a waltz with lady victory, we did at least get to ask her for a dance. So, before we potter off towards our clash with Old Stokey, a final, heartfelt “hurrah!” for Mr Montella, and a suitably baritone “booo” for Mr Jan’s butter fingers.
Anyways, that’s enough for charm school my Fulham friends. If you don’t see me this next Saturday coming, I’ll sure as sugar see you! Now I’m off to meet Ma from her cleaning job at the local church, and to shake my fist at Old Scratch whilst I’m there.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Enough with humbugging and all associated slapdashery, enough with being a fly in the jug, a snit, and a foot-dragging flibbertigibbet.
Well, Mr and Mrs Tottenham’s children, they showed themselves to be nothing more than a bunch of sickly, weak-limbed, lightweights, didn't they. A gaggle of nanny-suckling parlour-soldiers, lead by Miserable Moan-a-Minute Mr Jolly, a modern-day Mr Pugwash if ever I saw one.
Meanwhile, our boys, lead by Corporeal Brown (that pallor!), cast vexations and grumblings aside, and demonstrated what a limp chimera of a top team his ex-employers really are. Furthermore, they made it more than crystal to Mr Steed that his career choice might not be the sublime path to glory that he might have previously imagined. Poor lamb.
And whilst we were unable to partake of a waltz with lady victory, we did at least get to ask her for a dance. So, before we potter off towards our clash with Old Stokey, a final, heartfelt “hurrah!” for Mr Montella, and a suitably baritone “booo” for Mr Jan’s butter fingers.
Anyways, that’s enough for charm school my Fulham friends. If you don’t see me this next Saturday coming, I’ll sure as sugar see you! Now I’m off to meet Ma from her cleaning job at the local church, and to shake my fist at Old Scratch whilst I’m there.
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Friday, 12 January 2007
Wiggas & Wonderings
Word up, Fulham thugs of mine!
As Mr GZA once said: “Why is the sky blue, why is water wet” and, presumably, “Why do lovers break each other’s hearts”.
There I was yesterday, slouching on the bonnet of Miss Wetherby’s (next door but one) plum-coloured Karmann Ghia, slurping on a can of flip. I’d had a bit of a backwards headache following a staring competition with the Johhny Haynes stand that morning. Fortunately for little me, the flip did the business - what a bracing cordial that was! Perhaps it was the turpentine chaser, but my little brain was off doing arabesques with Rudey Nureyev!
Anyways, there I loitered, gazing longingly at the flower-seller’s daughter, and wondering why if it’s a big enough umbrella, it’s always me that ends up getting wet, when suddenly the news entered my little noggin, courtesy of Mr Tjinder bellowing in my lug-holes (and interrupting my lecherous little reverie), that Mr Cookie had just ensnared a bright shiny new footballing player by the name of Mr Clint Dempsey.
Well. Clint. I don’t believe that there’s anyone currently residing in SW6 by the name of Clint. Not in this neighbourhood.
Apparently, he indulges in tip-top or bling-rap or some such confusion, whatever carry-on that might allude to?
I hope he doesn’t go in for all this glorification of guns following a goal-scoring incident: imitating AK47s, Kalashnikovs and spud-guns. There really is no need for violence in this day and eon.
Anyway, on that little moral morsel, I’m off for a quick scoot up and down North End Road to throw some sprouting tubers and broken cockleshells at the Jesus freaks out leafleting the locals.
What a hoop’la and how-de-do that promises to be.
Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka!
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
As Mr GZA once said: “Why is the sky blue, why is water wet” and, presumably, “Why do lovers break each other’s hearts”.
There I was yesterday, slouching on the bonnet of Miss Wetherby’s (next door but one) plum-coloured Karmann Ghia, slurping on a can of flip. I’d had a bit of a backwards headache following a staring competition with the Johhny Haynes stand that morning. Fortunately for little me, the flip did the business - what a bracing cordial that was! Perhaps it was the turpentine chaser, but my little brain was off doing arabesques with Rudey Nureyev!
Anyways, there I loitered, gazing longingly at the flower-seller’s daughter, and wondering why if it’s a big enough umbrella, it’s always me that ends up getting wet, when suddenly the news entered my little noggin, courtesy of Mr Tjinder bellowing in my lug-holes (and interrupting my lecherous little reverie), that Mr Cookie had just ensnared a bright shiny new footballing player by the name of Mr Clint Dempsey.
Well. Clint. I don’t believe that there’s anyone currently residing in SW6 by the name of Clint. Not in this neighbourhood.
Apparently, he indulges in tip-top or bling-rap or some such confusion, whatever carry-on that might allude to?
I hope he doesn’t go in for all this glorification of guns following a goal-scoring incident: imitating AK47s, Kalashnikovs and spud-guns. There really is no need for violence in this day and eon.
Anyway, on that little moral morsel, I’m off for a quick scoot up and down North End Road to throw some sprouting tubers and broken cockleshells at the Jesus freaks out leafleting the locals.
What a hoop’la and how-de-do that promises to be.
Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka!
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Monday, 1 January 2007
Figgy Pudding & Fatness
Well chums, with 12 crisp and shiny new months all stacked up neatly for us to enjoy over the coming year, I’d like to wish all you Fulham-flavoured best mates of mine out there a prosperous one!
Last night, with the memory of Mr Carlos Boca’s glorious equaliser still fresh in the thinking part of my noggin, I fear I had one too many sups of Jenkins Ol’ Wallop, and I was up a-jiving and a-jigging all night long ‘till auld acquaintances had been forgotten and all that malarkins! Also, through the now-foggy miasma of my noodle, I vaguely remember chargin’ up and down the North End Road at some point with a pillow up me shirt and a cupped hand to me ear, making like Mr Flab Lampard in a most derogatory fashion.
Now I’m a-achin’ all over as Mr Johnny Kidd would say!
Anyways, me New Year’s Resolution is in tribute to me still-suffering Ma: “Don’t drink a tin-bath full of Dick’s Advocaat or you’ll end up with a muzzy izzet”.
Keep those wise words with you at all times, fellow black and whiters, and it’ll be a good year!
Now let’s stuff some stale figgy puddin’ in those Hornet-shaped cake-holes today! They're nothin' but a bunch of yellow & black pantywaists!
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
Last night, with the memory of Mr Carlos Boca’s glorious equaliser still fresh in the thinking part of my noggin, I fear I had one too many sups of Jenkins Ol’ Wallop, and I was up a-jiving and a-jigging all night long ‘till auld acquaintances had been forgotten and all that malarkins! Also, through the now-foggy miasma of my noodle, I vaguely remember chargin’ up and down the North End Road at some point with a pillow up me shirt and a cupped hand to me ear, making like Mr Flab Lampard in a most derogatory fashion.
Now I’m a-achin’ all over as Mr Johnny Kidd would say!
Anyways, me New Year’s Resolution is in tribute to me still-suffering Ma: “Don’t drink a tin-bath full of Dick’s Advocaat or you’ll end up with a muzzy izzet”.
Keep those wise words with you at all times, fellow black and whiters, and it’ll be a good year!
Now let’s stuff some stale figgy puddin’ in those Hornet-shaped cake-holes today! They're nothin' but a bunch of yellow & black pantywaists!
Flamin’ scallions and Up The Fulham!
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