A most Bewhildering and Exhausting time for us poor Souls resygned to follow Ye Lads. A supposed Happy Time of Misrule and Good Cheer (and a time my goode Lady has often had to help me disrobe and disavail myselfe of my breeches; a most Sorry garment which did suffer Muche over this season of Merriment and Wassaile; and did most straungely Attract many droplets of Pisse and Foodstuffs of a Glutinous varieteye upon Ye Thighs).
But, predictably, unrelenting Good Cheer to all concerned hath been kept in check by Ye Reality Asylum that is Newcastle United football clubbe.
As ye Minstrel of Sheffield John Shuttleworth hath most Eloquentleye and Affectingleye put it; I’ve been up and down like a bride’s nightie this past fortnight; where the moments of pleasure (Everton) are as but tiny shafftes of ye Sunne’s rays; ones which are most Cruelly and Quickly expunged by gloweringe and overpowering rain clouds. Bitter, bitter blows against ye Preening Dandies of Tottenham, and ye Pernicious and Malcontent Cromwellian rabble that cometh from ye place down the road (a place that doth resembleth the Hell as described by Ye Poet, Mr Milton, in Paradise Lost) were even lower points to the predictable howkings served to us by Arsenal and Manure. The best recourse in all of this gloom is to try to imagine the M*****s defeat as the Gordian knot moment, when our Late, unlamented Reeve Pardieuw did resemble nothing less than a shipwrecked mariner, toss’d and wrack’d upon a sea of his owne Peacock-like* Imaginynges, clasping onto a log call’d severaunce payment.
*(A moste unlucky and Ill-tempered bird.)
(An asyde; upon observing Tottenham’s players and fans during our late Londyne Misery, I am concerned with that groomynge hath gone but too far with young Bucks and Knaves in general in these isles; what with Clipp’d and synged Beards and Facial Creams and Ornate tattoos that do look as if Ye Good craftsman Wedgewood hath designed them for his cuppes and plates. These young flounders do but look like a million versions of that bloke Gary from middle clarse Home Cunties [sic] comedy Miranda.)
As ever our one recourse to watching our defence consistently acting like a bunch of spare pricks at an orgy is but to be Merry, and worldly wise in our Afflictions; and accept that for now, the only trophies Ye Lads will win shalle be but upon ye Electronicke Contraption Knowne as Football Mananger, or ye amusemente for ye over 40s nostalgia heads, Knowne as Subutteo. For, it is but surely better that we forget this period knowne thereafter as ‘Black 2014’; and realise (for the millionth time) that, like Sisyphus, we followers shall but continue to roll the stone of our dreams up ye slope, only to see the fucker roll all the way down again. Pissflaps.
If ownleye we could disporte ourselves happily and support our clubbe without care and without Recourse to understanding ye dark arts of Accountancy or journalisme or gobshittery from armchair ‘football fans’; or second guessing what ye Monolythe that is My Good Lorde Asheleye is truly thinkynge. Is it but Straunge Chaunce bestowed by an irony sent by Ye Heavenleye Host, that our Corpulent Lord seeks his Christmas pleasure in an island in ye Carribee, a place of pirates and persons who wish to hide their gold from our gouvernmente and all the while eat sushi off lapdancers’ bellybuttons?
Still; we shall leave Lord Ashley to leave his considerable carbon/lard/methane/cheap trainer’d foote prynte upon ye white sands that the Spanish Main doth kiss, and watch Pardieuw beggar off to sarf London, where they may enjoy his banter and preening more than we didde.
In hindsighte, it doth verrily seem as if My Lord’s Late Reeve Pardieuw was of the stamp of man thatte wanted to be Top Man at All Tymes; a most Wearisome and Self-defeating occupation. And most Assuredleye did Reeve Pardieuw see our clubbe as a sort of comfy local pub that he’d like to turn into a gastro establishment, serving ‘real cask beer’ from poncey breweries or ‘Continental speciality lager’ strained from the 15th century piss vats of Belgian monks, and ‘real chips’ in them stupid miniature tin buckets that look like my gran’s coalscuttle. A tasteless attempt at having taste and being with it, daddy-oh. Fuck that.
Pro ardua ad astra. He’s gone, we’re still here. Now, all together, here’s to a very successful, enjoyable 2015. Or at least, one without Gouffran in midfield.
- John Shuttleworth – Up & Down like a Brides Nightie https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QTsvaZGSxvU
- Mdou Moktar – La Super http://sahelsounds.bandcamp.com/track/la-super
- Song, by Toad’s MAGIC BEANZ! 2015 sampler (5 tracks) https://soundcloud.com/songbytoad/sets/song-by-toads-magic-beanz
- Jane Weaver – Argent https://soundcloud.com/finderskeepersrecords/jane-weaver-argent
- Limited Liability Sounds – O Tannenbaum http://llsnoise.bandcamp.com/album/o-tannenbaum
- The Cosmic Dead – Fukahyoocastulah http://thecosmicdead.bandcamp.com/album/fukahyoocastulah-from-mugstar-split-12
- For Food – Opium New Year http://forfood.bandcamp.com/track/opium-new-year
- Science Fiction Park Bundespepublik – Dit, Uta https://soundcloud.com/finderskeepersrecords/dit-uta-science-fction-park-brd
- Mumdance’s Mahraganat Mixtape https://soundcloud.com/dummymag/dummy-mix-205-mumdance
- DJ Bamanan – Goni Bala http://sahelsounds.bandcamp.com/track/goni-bala
RICHARD FOSTER, INCENDIARY MAGAZINE.
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