Saturday, 24th November 2001.
Ispurs vs West Ham
The Ispurs! Ho ho...isn't it? The 'Ammers, chirpy cockney chappies, spot a
bargain at twenty paces, wouldn't they? Hmm? First outing of the season
for the Ispurs. Pre-season? That's something you do to a Christmas turkey
isn't it? Turkeys? The Ispurs? Is that kosher? It's not swine!
Ahem, er, yes, anyway... 'Ackney Marshes, ah the imagery...grassroots
football, dog turds in the goal area, hyperdermic needles in the outfield,
lush green grass, battered goalposts fair gleaming in the morning sunlight.
And 22 unfit blokes running around, not unlike the young Manager in his
pomp! Ho ho! Darting down the wings, dazzling the young ladies with those
brilliantly white, er, thighs! Cross, Ron! No, I'm not, I'm just slightly
Enough! Moving on to the game, which the Ispurs didn't do until the end of
the second half. The, er, famous claret of the 'Ammers up against the
lillywhites of Spurs. Lillywhites, hmm? Inspire fear? Ho ho, hardly!
Visions of edelweiss and what-not! Mrs Manager labouring in the garden in
the first flushes of spring, bend over sweetheart, I'm driving!
Ho ho! Yes! What? Oh er, scramble in the goalmouth, aerial ping-pong,
behemoth rises above the pack and nods into the goal. 1-0 to the lads from
What's this? The knives aren't out at half-time? Where are the Ispurs and
what have you done with them? Who are these imposters? Disturbing imagery,
isn't it? Hmm? No oranges at half-time! What are the women playing at,
sending their men off to battle without provisions?
Bloomin' 'eck, the ball's in the back of Dazza's net again. Ho ho, finger
pointing! That's what we, er, like! Pointing of...fingers! Tweet! The
ref's blown his whistle! Why's that? Er, because it's a goal Ron. A
rampaging run down the right, it's not the little kid, it's the big one!
It's a cross, it's a goal! Harrumph, the Ispurs can't even be bothered
yelling at each other. Time for a little pick-me-up, eh? Darren? Making
up the weight, is he? Hmm? Plenty more food over there, son!
Ah yes, little Mike, the terrier-like Australian. Two weeks on the piss, ho
ho! He's a bit worse for wear. Battle on son! Who's that on the wing?
The svelte form of Jon Adelman? You're having a laugh, aren't you?
Running? Is he? Cor blimey!
Bloody hell! Where did that come from? Russ, that's where! Blinder, my
son. Ispurs finish full of running, but run out of time. The 'Appy 'Ammers
win in an apparent canter. Decanter? Top-up anyone?
(Ron Manager appears courtesy of no-one, because he would be funnier than