More words of wisdom from Sir Timothy Megone. The leader of the Tooty Wooty Boot Boys. Trade unionist and old punk rocker... So make yourself a nice cup of tea and settle down with this excellent piece of literature from this glue sniffing lefty yobbo.
Last season’s calamitous collapse and capitulation by the Once Mighty Stripes was a bitter pill to swallow and I’m not sure that many of the stricken hordes have yet recovered.
A summer time stroll to the club to sample the thrills and spills of England and Belgium playing charades stabbed home the bitter truth - with the sign of Satan proudly exhibited over the turnstiles and no similar display to mark our own increasingly flatulent presence.
There’s no question that it was the right decision to allow the Devil’s Omelettes through our gates – threatened as they were with extinction at the hands of a grasping landlord. Their demise would have deprived us of the pleasures that only searing hatred can give, though that is all fairly academic now with their elevation to loftier climes and our simultaneous plummet into the bowels of this god forsaken planet.
At the Emperor’s Pastures, we have been used to playing second, third or fourth fiddle to lacrosse, weddings and probably dogging, but to have that mob take over on the footballing priority front is surely one affront to humanity too far.
Meanwhile, we have slithered beneath just about every comparable rival club in the South London/Surrey area, with the likes of Sutton and Bromley light years away, and villages such as Merstham and Walton Casuals looking down on us from on high. Our big local derby this year will be the encounter with stockbroking farmers Chipstead (I gather all tickets are sold for the Bank Holiday Clash) while, as one embittered jester pointed out, we can look forward to other all Surrey encounters against a cartoon (South Park) and a shopping centre (Westfield).
Still as the Terrors have spent most of my footballing life demonstrating, no club is too big to be crap and we have to make the best of it in the Bostik South Central. Seeing most of last season’s squad in the bar that balmy June evening was vaguely reassuring, the players still wanting to stay with the club and hell bent on a quest to rescue our damaged pride and wreak murderous vengeance, maybe not against the likes of Staines and Billericay, but possibly society at large. They hadn’t become shit players overnight and here was the chance to prove it. All of this spiced up with spritely reinforcements from the Under 23 team, for, as Big Daddy Kane once warbled, ‘Children are the future.’ What could possibly go wrong?
Once again, I could feel the Fires from the Fields moisten my loins. No one could ever take the magic of two seasons ago away from us and we want it all back. There can be no going back, no surrender, the banners unfurled for the start of the new season … and what a fucking car crash it was, away to Northwood, a ground where corpses from the neighbouring cemetery are hastily brought in to reinforce the crowd, and balance out the large Tooting contingent. 3-1 up with twelve minutes to go, we stylishly snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, and it was back to the darkened room and mind-altering substances for the returning hordes.
Surely it would all be different at the theatre of terror, as we entertained the Children of Ken Barlow, a Morris dancing troupe from Marlow. The turnout wasn’t bad but it’s hard to get a crowd going when you’ve just had your soul sucked inside out. In the end, there was almost a sense of relief at the stodgy but wholesome fare that was dumped before us, solid defending and the odd chance, a snapshot from a well fed looking Billy Dunn and a crisp header from Dominic Morgan Griffiths - both fizzing inches wide - testament to our unrewarded superiority in a goalless thriller. At least we didn’t lose. From small acorns …
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