Peter Hill-Wood's Guide To Football Chants!

Last Wednesday, while having Tiffin at my club, I received a rather alarming call on my mobile telephone.  The colonies, it seems, are rather upset by the current trend towards racism and bigotry that appear to be rife among supporters of the more “common” clubs and our esteemed major shareholder, Mr Kroenke, demands our own chaps do not descend to such base vulgarity in our impending contest against the dirty Spuds.

To that end I have prepared the following handy, cut-out guide to acceptable behaviour.  Might I suggest you keep it on your person at all times, or if you feel disposed to have a pre match sherry or one of those “hot doggies”, you entrust it to the care of your driver until kick off.

Firstly, the match officials and specifically the umpire.  It serves no purpose to suggest the esteemed gentleman has a penchant for self-abuse, nor indeed proposing that he is visually impaired and the result of hasty copulation with the chamber maid behind the stables.  One should be courteous but firm, imagine him to be one of the servants, a loud “Oh I say!”, and an admonishing wag of the finger will carry much more weight than the dreadful “you don’t know what you’re doing!”.  Remember one is not from Northumberland!

On the subject of goal minders, an odd and decidedly eccentric lot, particularly our own foreign chappie.  Indeed I once obliquely referred to his unruly hair style by enquiring of him whether he was “off to Woodstock” or some other beatnik jazz festival, to which he gave no reply, just stared at me blankly.  Blankly I say!  One should of course endeavour to give him every encouragement and try not to soil oneself at every back pass.  As for the scum’s antiquated, Villa reject, might I suggest a rousing “Ooooooooooh.........you have an extremely poor shots to saves ratio!”  Hilarious.

Should the unthinkable happen and our brave boys put in a below par first half performance, then before you retire for a bracing half time glass of port, or cup of beef tea, I entreat you not to resort to the, frankly common, practise of “booing”.  Restrict yourself to an angry “tsk tsk” or perhaps an admonishment towards the bench, along the lines of “Mr Wenger I protest at your tactics, I protest loudly Sir!”  On no account should you partake in the vulgar exhortation for him to “spend some money”.  May I remind you that we have frozen season ticket prices at 100 Guineas, what one would be expected to pay for a good day out at Ascot, including luncheon!

Now to the subject of derogatory chants towards the filth from down the road.  Umbra in perpetuum est.

Frankly it is not cricket to constantly mention the High German of the Ashkenazi Jews or any variations or abbreviations thereof.  Neither is it proper, or noble, to constantly draw attention to their manager’s unfortunate facial tic!  Might I suggest the contemporary and cutting

> the Queens shilling, repay the Queens shilling!

Guaranteed to reduce him to a quiver of embarrassed twitchiness and therefore denuding his ability to make tactical decisions,

Here a few other chants you may direct at the Spuds.

Towards their supporters

> You will be perambulated home by the emergency services!

> Stand up if you hate Tottenham, but stand in a purely metaphoric fashion (i.e. the standing is implied but not the action of standing, as it contravenes Health and Safety) plus you may be ejected from the stadium.

Towards Gareth Bale

> You bear a striking resemblance to a Simian Hominid, specifically Pan troglodytes!  Lol at that one!

Towards Adeybayor

> You Sir are a despicable mercenary; we find your pursuit of filthy lucre to be extremely distasteful!

Towards Scotty Parker

> You may look like Biggles, but you have none of his morals or dignity!  Mmmmh Biggles!

Towards Assou-Ekotto

> You may think your elaborate hirsuteness calls attention to you, but it merely calls attention to your poor positional sense!

So there you have it, you glorious followers of the Red and White, remember support our brave boys this Sunday against the dastardly forces of evil.  Enjoy the game and have a safe happy day, please don’t feel compelled to beat your servants if the result goes against us.  Remember Victoria Concordia Crescit, or as Lady Nina was fond of saying...Up the Arse!!!.....Diggidy!!

Inside the Mind of Marouane Chamakh

“There must be some way out of here, said the joker to the thief, there’s too much confusion, I can’t get no relief”.  Great song that.  The Jimmy Hendrix version obviously, not Dylan’s.  Kind of dispels the myth, that the original is always better than the imitation.  See the message is totally different from version to version.  Hendrix has a more anthemic feel, while Dylan,    wait, the Boss wants to know if I’m warm enough.  I give him the thumbs up...quite comfortable Boss!  Oooh! He wants me to warm up, better get going, he looks quite cross!

Now, how does this go again? Ah yes stretch a bit while pretending to watch the match, a bit of a light jog, why do they have to make the edge of the pitch so slanty?  Must ask the groundskeeper next time.  I enjoy my little chats with him, he keeps a bottle of whiskey in his office you know.  Sometimes I get my days mixed up and come to the Emirates instead of London Colney, in fact one time I came to the Emirates when we were playing away, I asked the groundskeeper could I go on the pitch and have a kick about, he said that Wenger had left strict instructions that under no circumstances was I allowed to set foot on the pitch.  I pointed out that, it only applied when there was a game on!  I’m not doing that high stepping, swivelling the hips and arms thing, that just looks stupid.  Hey, I’m going on.

Bastard tracksuit bottoms, there has to be an easier way.  What about those trousers that male strippers wear? You know the Velcro jobs you can just rip off in one movement.  I’ve often wondered when strippers get down to their undercrackers, and then whip them off, does the money go all over the place?  Is there then etiquette for picking it up?  Do they wait until the routine is over?  I presume they must pick the money up while facing the audience, otherwise they get a full view of the old back passage!  Do they have to do a training course?  Yes I am listening to you Pat....support Robin......track back....get in the box...blah blah blah! ....................... I’m fucking freezing!!

And I’m on.  Crap!  We’re playing those Red and White stripey bastards, and yes, the square headed fucker, who’s always trying to kill me, is playing.....great!  Think I’ll go stand over there for a while.

Mr Tambourine Man, now that’s a conundrum.  I love the Byrds version, but also love Dylan’s version (although a trifle long), think I’ll call that one a draw....Oooh the ball!....shite, offside!

I do love Bowie, but “Pin Ups” really?  It’s all cover versions, and obscure ones at that....nice tackle Gibbsie, careful you don’t get “injured”!  Jesus! They’re so soft, I never get injured.  Quick throw the ball to the new guy, he’s totally free, throw it now.  Oh for fuck sake, don’t throw it to me, what am I supposed to do?  Time for the old crafty back heel methinks, he’ll never read that!!

Well that didn’t work, should I run after him, I think I’ll run after him.....yes, great tackle new guy!!

I must go and introduce myself to the new guy.  I mean he can’t be as grumpy as the big German!  Hee hee, you should hear him trying to pronounce “bicycle”.  Hilarious.

Huh, another miserable grumpy bastard, and again with the “get in the box”, do they think I’m a magicians assistant or something?.......Ball.....Offside.....Bollocks!

See, the trouble with this club, its all cliques.  For example, start of the season, loads of new guys, Jack Wilsheres FIFA night, everybody in.  My “Frank Zappa – Joes Garage” re-enactment night, nobody!!  “Bartender, I’ll have a Pina Colada with milk.  Second thoughts, better make that a water, H-T-O”.  Classic..........Ball...........No Fucking Flag!!

Ok, Marouane, head down, do not look up under any circumstances, just keep going.  Square headed man....square headed man............man down!!

Ow ow ow o wow!!  Jesus that hurt.  Yes, book him Ref, have that you big square headed, caveman bastard.  Hello physio man.  I’m fine, honestly, I’m ok, don’t spray that shit on me...ack...Straight in my face.  My face isn’t injured for fuck sake!  I expect I’ll be subbed off now, Hello, Hello, bench totally ignoring me.  Hang on, I am a sub!!

Have to go and defend a corner now, I hate this crap!

Instructions from Woj, concentrate etc, defend your zone, blah blah!  Honestly I am not a child!!

Actually, who remembers the original of “Sorrow”, it is a great Bowie song from Pin Ups, yet no one remembers the original by the Merseys, or is it just me? Oh good goal, overhead kick!!

Shout at me all you want you lanky German bastard.  Its pronounced BICYCLE, and FYI an eye doctor is not called an “optimist”, wanker.

Final whistle, thank Christ!  Yeah well played mate, but I don’t want your sweaty shirt!

Wonder what the score was!!

Transfer Deadline Day 2 – This Time Personal It Doth Be!

Felicitations all ‘tis James the White,

Your humble host on this night of nights,

‘round this sceptered isle our correspondents fly,

For the latest news in definition high.

Aye the comings, goings, innings, outings

And drama, that I’ll convey by shouting.

Caveat emptor, buyer beware,

And E-harmony and Go Compare.

First to London and Emirates field we fly

Where noble Brutus standeth by,

Amidst rabble, that mob and throng,

I prithee entreat them for a song

Some lifting hymn or inspir’ed psalm,

Or “Stand up if you hate Tottenham”

Hath Lord Wenger, his defence sutured

With foreign heroes, hitherto obscure,

Or perhaps some mewling infant, snatched from mother’s teat,

That likes the ball played into feet!

What say you, Brutus?

Hail, Big Jim, I trust I find you fine of fettle

Tho’ allowed hath been the dust to settle,

That hath seen the mighty Arsenal yield,

At the massacre of Trafford field.

Eight Two Brute?

Aye, eight two indeed,

Now Frenchmen have succumbed to greed,

And the Spaniard, to his ancestral home has flown,

While that lofty, beauteous Dane has gone on loan.

In hath come an Oriental, a fleet of foot attacker,

A Brazilian and Per Mertesacker.

And portentous tidings, to cause a stout heart swoon,

Arteta and Yossi Benayoun!

Fie! Foul Wenger artfully he the arrow dodged,

Tho’ Clock End clamour for his dislodge.

What of England’s rose, and brave Sir Harry’s team

So nearly conquerors of Europe,

So foully trick’d from Carling Cup,

So almost, nearly Wembley bound

Then dashed their hopes on stony ground.

And when cruel autumn doth arrive,

Can be viewed on Thursday, Channel 5!

We gathered here at White Hart gate,

For Harry’s wisdom we await,

All in for shilling or for pound

What sayeth noble Harry, through car window wound?

Scotty Parker, Adebayor from City,

Oh be still the heart of Hotspur,

Pause ye, persevere and pity,

Becalm’ed, try laudanum or other soporific,

For Harry has declared these signings “triffick”

And what of Crouch, that gallant, that tower,

Cometh the man, cometh the hour?

Of “nearly man” hath he cast off the yoke?

Alas no Jim, he’s been sold to Stoke.

Though by strategy, he only needs to stand

In goalmouth awaiting Delaps prodigious hands,

For ‘tis off long ball that he thriveth best.

Aye, like the Chief in

“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest!”

Alas dear friends the night it creepeth in,

And we must, most reluctant, call the curtain down.

To Stamford now, whither the money goest?

Juan Mata and Anders Villas Boas!

On and on, to King Kenneth’s realm we go,

Hath he squandered Henry’s dough?

Aye, every noble Englishman is now in red,

To launch the ball at Carroll’s head.

And here we end, and farewell to all,

What tales we’ve heard tonight of this “football”

Speak now yere thoughts, be they sweet or bitter,

Tell all, by E-mail or by Twitter.

And ‘til January, your prayers be answered may

On another Transfer Deadline Day.