Another week has passed. Another week in which the gods of weather once again intervened, laying our well laid plans to waste. Another week in which Jose appears at yet another football club, promising to play youth, play attacking football and bring the joy back to their game…and, most disappointingly of all, another week in which we are yet to see Thad’s Column.
Welcome to The Peril. Relatively thin pickings this week. As you know, we’re not a political rag, and, despite the proliferation of idiocy that is the current election campaign, we will not comment. This despite the wide open goals the various fumbling, sweating, preening misrepresentations of humanity attempting to get elected present to us on a daily basis. We shall hold our tongue, nominating only to define what kind of parliament we would like to see. The Junior Under-Editor has declared that his preference is a hung parliament. Preferably led by John Bercow Esq.
Most unlike The Peril to want to go on a rant about something, but we’re concerned we may have missed something and might actually be a parrot. This unsettling feeling is due to the persistent and increasing volume of seeds we keep finding in our food. There are sunflower seeds in our granola, flax seeds in our salads, a variety in our snacking bars and even linseed in our bread (surely the only use for linseed is the provision of oil for spending at least 6 months knocking in a cricket bat only for it to splinter the first time you waft something to first slip?). We appear to have reached peak seed. This is obviously completely different to a substance the female population of south west London has been attempting to avoid for the past 5-10 years. The ladies of Antwerp have, sadly, failed to avoid such an encounter. Answers on a postcard.
One adventure last weekend, and what an adventure. The 3s went to Chiswick for a game of Crossbar Challenge, punctuated only by some nasty-late-bastard challenges from Old Meadonians. In between at least 5 players hitting various parts of the woodwork, two debutants made a huge impact. Billy Z (this will forever be his name) nodded in three of the best headers this old hack has ever seen. The other outstanding appearance was at the opposite end of the park. Finally, a modern goalkeeper that can catch, punch, kick and nutmeg has joined the club. He’s got wonderful hair to boot. Robert Palmer, (he’s addicted to glove ((c) Dan Hogg) made some incredible stops, keeping the 3rd Purple Army in the campaign at vital moments. Outcome: 4:4. One point returned, plus several platters of chips and chicken (?) nuggets.
Best wishes for the weekend my friends. May it bring you many goals. Get down to Grists at 1:30 for cold beer, great sideline banter and SHOUTING.
“Football is an art, like dancing is an art – but only when it’s well done does it become an art.”
– Arsene Wenger
Weddings, Births, Familial Events
Still awaiting that match report, Mr Dickenson.
Mr Bell has been in touch to clarify that he has never worn a chicken outfit. He also insisted that were he to wear the aforementioned outfit, it would, in fact, require the French pronunciation.
Mr Griffiths, despite no accusation, has also been in touch to protest that he has never worn a hippo outfit. Bizarre.