an idiot in london

November 2001

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 annoyed!

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 E17.

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 all that.)