The English Premiership’s Wake

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riverrun, past Oxford and London, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodity vicious of recirculation back again and backin and agack. Tamesas, you dark bastard! Why do we drink from you? Wealth hen. Howbootinotherzip?

I.

Sir Monseur, violer d’amores, fr’over sea and land, had passen-core arrived from the Gulf on this side of the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor to wielderfight is peearrr wore. Tisnuthin sometin ta speak of, so to sayeth. Hughes snooze lose out. Son of Erik aswel. Though all’s fair in vanessy, were Dzeko wroth with twone Tevez n Balotelli. Wearohthin stay be unwelcomed. Rot a peck of pa’s melt and Toure the City wittrophyaglowin. Saltsnwounds of thasort.

The fall (rabadabababaaabababaabbskwantoohoohoordenethur – nuk!) of a once wallstrait oldparr is related early in bed and later on life through all christian minstrelsy. The great fall of the offwail entailed at such short notice the pftschute Sitaye, erse solid club, that the humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends an unquiring one well to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes: and their upturnpikepointandplace is at the knock out in the ‘Mrates.

What clashes here of gen wonts, oystrygods gaggin fishy-gods! Doh Do Ray Deck Duck Dock Gecko Dzeko. Proclaimeth not a bitch player, yet bitches. What bidimetoloves sinduced by what tegotetab-solvers! Enter the cruelmuse. Tempt thysensashuns. Slithertooffer. Tis just abyte, no more. Feel no weight. Ignore thosurroundyou. Just abyte, no more. Tasted fresh ysterday, bitter by noon today. Handout what ye had but do not have? Plausibly preposterously impossible!

The oaks of ald soon shall lie in peat yet elms leap where askes lay. Brown leaves the bark. Brittle fills the bark. Gray covers the bark. Bark covers the oak. Roots re-syst bat whether weather, only sumtimes wizer. Witter witter witter. Strong Toure, Weak Tomorrow. Invincentable no. Inevitble vices. Git cott win ye leastexpect. Then ya spect. The ruboftherub kin burn n turn.

1174 A.D. At this time, the most respected and esteemed William FitzStephen attempted to enjoy the loveliest of London festivities, that of Shrove Tuesday. However, to the modern reader’s indisputable disgust, he chanced upon a group of unwily youth playing at ball during the lunch hour. Obviously, such physical exertion before or after eating is unwise and ill advised.

1363 A. D. At this time, the blessed and honored King Edward III issued a most necessary proclamation (sobralasolas!). His majesty banned all idle game, including handball, cock-fighting, coursing, handball, and fotebal. These distractions merely weaken the potential pool of archers available in case of need to defend thy motherland. May the sinful scourges be stamped out for all time!

1880 A. D. At this time, the rector at St. Mark’s (West Gorton) faced a scourge of scuttling. Sadly, poor sanitation and overpopulation plagued the land, yet Christian values lacked. Thereforewithal, said rector’s daughter gathered the men to instill in them values, such as courage, physically robust bodies, and cricket. Yet winter deprived them of that very cricket which had led them from the life of scuttling. A compromise. The fotebal. But only as Christ would permit.

(SILENT)

1904 A. D. At this time, St. Mark’s as moniker was no more though traces of good muscular Christian boy values and the association remained. On April 23, these good lads did defeat a side from Bolton and lift the Football Association Cup. Hyde Road was exuberant. However, questions of finances arose. Had they violated the Football Associations’ restrictions on paying players born more than six miles from Hyde Road?

2012 A. D. At this time, Sitaye again lifted a trollfee. Tha same sp’rit of amatrism reignd. One player only played the fotebal to stay fit for golf, then played golf a few months, then returned. Some questioned the finances. Others spuriously gested tatafew players were born moretin sex miles from Hide Rowed. Came ‘tanuthin.

Summer sows sew’rin simmermpler times. The babbelers with their thangas vain have been (confusium hold them!) they were and went; thigging thugs were and hou-hnhymn songtoms were and comely norgels were and pollyfool fiansees. Seven Nation Army. Fleeting flutterin bout but back. Enemies nomore but friendsagain. Tryto tie trietoo ty. Reravel yer bonds will ye? Can it bee dun? For that saying is as old as the howitts. Lave a whale a while in a whillbarrow (isn’t it the truath I’m tallin ye?) to have fins and flippers that shimmy and shake. James the miller Jimmycan timped hir, tampting Tam. Fleppety! Flippety! Fleapow!

Hop!

MILLER — Ben us tar daze. You been the bubs n the bobs but I gather afairshake. Wellplayidmilad. Camp ay own, theysay.

DAVSIL — Whatta minds you?

MILLER — Yer know, doncha? Yu be faintin the mute of the orient?

DAVSIL — Whoa. Whoat is the mutter with you?

MILLER — I became a stun a stummer.

DAVSIL — [            ]

MILLER — Welldonchaknow?

DAVSIL — [              ]

MILLER — I benback butcher gonna see whatsahappend. Donchagofaintin nobody’ll believe it. Yer on thelevel now.

DAVSIL — [                ]

MILLER — Wellyeno. Shitappens.

Music Cue

“THE BALLAD OF LEXA SONAFERG.”

Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall,
(Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall,
Hump, helmet and all?

He was one time our King of Trafford
Soon he’” be treated about as rotten old parsnip.
And from Busby Way he’ll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Strangeways

(Chorus) To the jail of Strangeways!

Jail him anjoy. He was fafafather of all schemes for to lift us
Quick touches and immaculate invectives for the nearbypress,
Mare’s milk for the signings, seven dry Sundays a week,
Openair love and neurownrs,

 (Chorus) And neurownrs,

Hideous in form. Arrah, why, says you, couldn’t he manage it?
I’ll go bail, my fine dairyman darling,
Like the kicking bull of the Cantonas
All your butter is in your horns.

 (Chorus) His butter is in his horns.

Butter his horns!

(Repeat) Hurrah there, I am, ye ‘em he’em GM, change that shirt on ye,
Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!

Balbaccio, balbuccio!
We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken-pox and china chambers
Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.
Small wonder He’ll Cheat E’erawan our local lads nicknamed him
When Chimpden first took the floor

(Chorus) With his bucketshop store

   Down Glazer buhlazer, Lower. So snug he in his corporate suite premises sumptuous
But soon we’ll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery
And’tis short till sheriff Clancy’ll be winding up their NYSE company
With the bailiff’s bom at the door.

II.

Every Sat evening at lighting up o’clock sharp, sumsundays n a few weekdays, and until further notice in the Gents’ Parlor of the Bridge. (Bar and conveniences always open, also askaboota Club douncestears.) Entrancings: gads, a scrab; the quality, one large shilling. Newly billed for each wickeday perfumance. Somndoze massinees. By arraignment, childream’s hours, expercatered. Jampots, rinsed porters, taken in token. With regular redistribution of parts and players by the Italian puppetry pro-ducer and daily dubbing of ghosters. The Mime of Mick, Nick and the Maggies, adopted from the classic Blues Ballymooney Bloodriddon Murther by Bluechin Blackdillain (authorways ‘Big Storey’), featuring:

CASHLEY (Mr. Ashley Cole, unlicensed barrister, racial relations expert and consultant, at times derided as “choc-ice” by someand “Tio Tomas” by otros) not afraid to speak his mind nor tweetit nor a twitweet and incredibly handsomely well compensated for his services atalltimes, asyou’dspect, has shown hisself before atleastone magistrate, in order to

JT (Mr. John Terry, former former English captain whose recently re-placed captaincy was stripped, but has regained some composure of honor) defendafriendinneed amidst the most untruthful allegations of impropriety of the racial kind or ratheremarks of a racial nature butresteth assuredeth that before said honorably magistrate this fine gent cleared his uncleared name after a spellin Polend n you crane

CZECH (Mr. Petr Cech, professional wearer of helmet hat and envy of Ben Folds) but, alas, those two cuntrees shall forever spell heartbreak for he who hath doth mannedeth the net for he Czech Republic, who I note has faced no charges for racial remarks ever not once, still, one must inquire

LAMPS (Mr. Frank Lampard, the man who needs no introduction save his first and last name preceded by the abbreviation for “Mister” or a one syllable shortening of his last name) into how such things are possible in todazedaze endage; both consummate profeshnalls n elder statesmen, all zo won runs more dandaudder teehee I do jest, in part, for fadder

JOHNNY KILL (Mr. Juan Mata, who matters but at times has dallied on the ball when you scream at him to get up off the john) time frowns ‘pon sum butnot udders, youth sprowts frum down below but bubbles BUBBLES bubbles brims, anxious, ee-gur, hath it no place in a desolate old wasteland of misers who “know how to wyn”, hath

THE BOY (Mr. Fernando Torres, golden boot winner, champion, and eternal hero of Euro 2012) the tradewind betrayed the sailor, veevillsoon c but tis a rowdy bunch that’ll puton agood show, a spectacle to fill the spectacle, a cast so large you’d think it a net behind a boat skimming the ocean surface n turnin up plankton or cod or -small fish caught in mass quantity -

RAMBLUR (Mr. Ramires Something Something, or is it Mr. Something Something Ramires?) hum hums the endgine til it don’t, bit of a rumblin sin rumbo but ramblin along til it don’t, da stage full brimmin wit bodies movin legs kickin show ders clashin boots crackin n all zat udder good stuff, butadd mittenly bit cramped closed quarters coffinesque, at times, at other

K MONTE (Mr. Gary Cahill,the wanderer that found the bridge, flubbed the troll’s simple riddle, and now wanders no more “bad knock in training”) times vacant, canyubuleaveit, it’s a wild too faced faceted multiple ride-event-show-spectacular that’ll leave you reading your program and weeping into it and covering your laughing mouth with it, until said paper program

THE LIGHT (Mr. David Luiz, lover of lost causes, unpopular coaches, and late tackles) dissipates or gets torn up or shredded or waterlogged and the ink runs and your hands get dirty and you pull out a handkerchief or ask a neighboring spectator for a handkerchief – oh such such drama – atippidy tap tap here n there n

BYE SON (Mr. Michael Essien, the shadow playing in his own much too long shadow) atappady tip tip there n here n the motions is so perful they lifd yer spritz ah swears no refund butwe grantee fun n itsdatrooth

HUNK (Mr.Givanildo Vieira de Souza, the not green Bruce Bannister) the heartufachild beets n usallso git yer ticket the bridge is the place too b b sure to singasong bringascarf sipabeer enjoyurself the spectacle of spectacle

DUKE OF HAZARD (Mr. Eden Hazard, contemporaneous tweeter of salient and important current events) of spectacles awaits

III.

-Whatcha do boot hear dis fine Sonday murn? Just haggin boot Spittin fields, lookin agather? Gooner spendallday alookin?

-[DOES NOT SMILE]

-Sawing derpaper bouta wake, surrytohearit. Bittaretaletheripy’ll doyaguhd. [SMILES]

-[STILL DOES NOT SMILE]

-[SMILES]

-[STILL DOES NOT SMILE]

-These tingsaworkinawayout. Saw ya snagged a nice Podrollski fer da pertty penny. Goose good wid a bitofa French kiseen, doncha dink? Justgotterbakeit tillits warm n soft n the center. Bitofbutter n goodtogo.

-[LEAVES THE PLEASANT SHOPKEEPER WITHOUT RESPONDING AND MEANDERS ABOUT, GLANCING AT HALF-PRICED FLORIST DISPLAYS]

***

-Monseur, mayit intrest yoo tha finest cut of this fresh batch of veal?

-[EYES PERK UP]

***

-Maybe. Almunia fer five shillins, butkeep yer paws two yerself o itsnother five shillins.

-[AVOIDS EYE CONTACT]

***

-Thisear Berianspicedham’ll godown great witabita shangriya, freshfrum and a Lucy yeah!

-[STEPS CLOSER. FURLS EYEBROW. SNIFFS WITH CONTEMPT YET INTEREST]

-Twintee shillins. Tis a steel.

-[COLD STARE]

-Fine takeitfer fifteen ya tightfistedsonofapitch. Weir boutaclose ineeway.

***

-Robin Van Persie ain’t fer fack’in sale ye sayz? The has-been was the ‘woz been but the bus men ain’t been was whatcherspect’in. So buggerhoff.

-[SURREPTITIOUS WINK]

-Twenty pounds. Takeit errleafid.

-[EARS PERK UP]

-Twin tee free.

-[MOUTH WATERS. HANDS TREMBLE]

***

-Whadcha ask? Haomuch forza caballo placenta perpowwwnd? Wellit duh pins.

IV.

THE UNOFFICIAL WHITE HART LANE FAN FORUM FOR YOU THE FANS BY YOU THE FANS Please careflee read the rules on comments ntha such no offensive terms no trolls no flamin no promotin sales sites n thusutch Weer allSpurs sosho respect all threads closed after too weaks cuz spam comma mynts show up

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V.

Liverpool F.C.

Solift your chalicefull and gaze as the

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