"Hello FLawrence" said Dougalas
"Hello Dougalas" said Dozzebedee
"Hello Chambers" said Brian the Snail as he slithered his slimy trail across the pitch to his place in the away dug-out.
"You've let us down, Brian" said Chambers, a little tear in the corner of his eye. "You were f*cking sh*t last Tuesday at Lincoln. A f*cking slug could've played better than that. Now I've got to go and tell our supporters how sorry we are. I've a good mind to pour salt in your training gear. You'd better be careful or you'll be getting a free transfer to Chorlton and the Wheelies".
Bagpuss yawned and woke up temporarily. Christ, was he STILL at Portman Road? The McMice in the magic organ were busy trying to create magic out of two old shoes and a couple of used johnnies they'd found near the Alf Ramsay statue. One of the old Johnnies looked particularly ropey; full of congealed spunk, it flobbled around in the wind like an old woman's left tit. Still, it might do a job in midfield.
The Wombles had found a midfielder on a recce in Yorkshire. Gleefully, they picked it up and took it home to Great Uncle Tightbastarda. "This'll be better than Bishop" said Terrynoco. "A good clean and a bit of hoof training, it'll be as good as new", "Excellent!" boomed Great Uncle Tightbastarda. "A new signing for the cost of a train ticket and a few beans! Find some more like that and we'll be laughing. I'll get Madame Folet or whatever our assistant manager is called to give it a good going over.
Mr Benn was confused. He'd nipped into the changing room in the Shopkeeper's Fancy Dress shop expecting to come out the other door, the one that led to adventures, as a clown or a Knight, only to find he was playing centre back at Huddersfield and was getting a thorough pasting by their tricky centre forwards. "Ee oop son, never thee mind" said the white-haired older man in the dressing room at half-time. "At least you've cost oos feckall and ye're not bloody injured"
Roobarb sat disconsolately. It wasn't fair. Custard the Tvvat was six points clear and he'd been appalling these last few months.
Jamie's Magic Torch had stopped working. Instead of transporting him down the magic helter skelter to Cuckooland, he'd ended up in the Cobbold Lower watching an assortment of strange lumbering creatures playing convoluted games with a funny yellow ball. Oh how he wished he still had Wordsworth. Or Anderson. Or the Hunts. |  |
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