Strike a light me old china plate (mate), put down your dog n’ bone (phone) for a while and gather round the old Joanna (pianna (piano)) for a right old Cockney knees-up (a weird dance that looks like running on the spot). Why is everything classed as ‘old’ for those loveable scamps who love their mums but will cut you as soon as look at you if you misbehave round their manor? Nobody knows. I’ve forgotten my poi… Oh, right – West Ham. Luuuuuuvvvverly, geezer.
Opposition summary: West Ham are the only team in the Premiership League with a type of meat in their name. Except for Tottenham. And Swansea. Oh, and Liverpool. Yes okay, and Southampton. What’s that? Manchester United and Manchester City? I don’t know who you’ve been talking to but those are just rumours and it is most definitely NOT the most delicious of all the meats. Anyway, West ham are the only team in the Premiership League that play in claret (blood) and blue shirts. What? Oh, fuck off.
Prediction: With poor ikkle Wayney-Wayne out with a boo-boo, United will actually play at a pace that is actually classed as a pace. Goals for Memphis, Martial, Mata, Matteo and Morgan. mmmmm delicious footballer’s legs. 0-0 United.
The icy blast of the water brought McGhee back to reality like a gun shot (but one made of water and therefore relatively harmless). In the near total darkness of his cell, a thin sliver of light indicated he was about to get company…but who? Where the hell was I? Scanning his iMac like brain, the last thing he remembered was the plane preparing to land in Saigon…and the Dame. McGhee cursed himself inwardly. And then out loud. “Goddammit”, he said.
The door opened and as the light flooded his cell, a quick and basic structural analysis allowed McGhee to confirm his original suspicions: he was back in Berlin. But for how long? How long had he been there? To his drugged mind, time had ceased to hold any meaning – had it been 2 weeks? seven? thirty-two? Less or more than any of these guesses? A quick glance at the calendar on the wall revealed it to be 2. McGhee smiled contemptuously – leaving the calendar was their second mistake (‘their first was trying to imprison him in the first place’ he thought so the reader would definitely get the implication). His reverie was crudely interrupted by the harsh sound of metal on metal as the guard kicked over his daily meal. McGhee didn’t hesitate, upending the “meal” with a motion that he hoped really showed his disdain but also a little regret as it was chicken piri-piri and that was his favourite. The guard said nothing but instead produced a phone “It’s for you” he said ominously. McGhee took the phone (after the guard had removed the hand restraints obviously, fill in the blanks)
“Tom. Its your Dad” McGhee’s heart froze…no way would the old man have turned…”Tom? Can you hear me? I don’t really know what’s going on but I’ve had phone-calls from Ben and Brett and they’re actually concerned. They seem to think that recent United performances have seen you retreat to a fantasy world where excitement actually happens? Anyway, enough’s enough, got a boiler to price so snap out of it. Weirdo.” The phone went dead.
Prediction: McGhee’s mind was blown by the revelatory nature of the conversation – it all seemed so obvious now. But why then couldn’t he stop? And would Ben and Brett actually show concern? I had tried to set them on fire multiple times. I needed a lie down. Right old cockney barrel of monkeys this game so West Ham to steal it (literally) with old fashioned cockney pickpocket skills (West Ham was actually founded by Fagin) 2-0 United.
ffs they’re both at it now. I used to prefer it when they were terrible at this for the first 4 seasons, so my bit was always the best bit by miles. I wouldn’t have asked them if I’d thought they’d actually get good at it one day … I’m so low in confidence, I’ll probably end up just copying and pasting a couple of old West Ham previews and just change a few bits to make it relevant.
Guessing which West Ham is going to turn up is like guessing a thing that’s not very easy to guess. I’m going to presume it will be the West Ham that plays in the Premier League, and that, coupled with our very poor home form, yet recent mini-run of “general form”, I’d say makes the result anyone’s guess.
Like the old saying goes, every cloud saves nine, but you can’t make it drink, and I think you’d struggle to find anything better to say about this, or anything, than that. Even if you had Susie Dent off of Countdown with a really powerful magnifying glass, or perhaps a microscope with a 1000x setting aimed right at a dictionary. Or if you had someone with a really nice voice, like that bloke off of Radio 4, that always makes things sound a lot better than they actually are and you found something not quite as good as that to say, but hoped if you made that bloke off of Radio 4 say it with his voice it might sound better, it wouldn’t. Or if you said, “anything better to say about this, or anything, than that”, as a way of being clever, because I don’t think that actually works.
Think about it like this: David de Gea is the cloud. David de Gea saves nine goals. And if David de Gea refused to drink, you couldn’t force him to, because he’s an adult. You might be able to get his mum to talk him round, extolling the virtues of staying hydrated, but ultimately it’s his choice. It’s important to note that he might not be too keen on being referred to as an ‘it’, but as English is only his second language, he’d perhaps put it down to his own misinterpretation of the use of the correct form (fingers crossed).
You could also think about it like this: We, the fans, are the cloud. We, the fans, save nine pounds sterling minimum by not turning up to a game. And like David de Gea, we have our own autonomy; we don’t have to have a drink when offered one. Admittedly, there is a little grey area here, as some of us, the fans, are minors, and therefore might probably feel unable to argue with a legal guardian on the matter of drinking or not, but it’s still the best thing to say. We, the fans, will probably take less exception to being referred to as ‘it’ as David might, as collectively we could technically be considered an ‘it’, I think.
Think about it.
All of the above to play out exactly as I suggested. Danny will score. Adnan will score. The sky won’t fall in. The Universe will keep turning. I will stop. Danny with his customary two. Something to happen that everyone expected to happen. And something to happen that only a few people expected to happen. And something to happen that no-one expected to happen, even though someone might pretend they were expecting it to. Don’t believe them.
Prediction: I’ll forget to change any details to make it relevant, but the twist is that football never changes, so it will all be relevant, apart from Adnan and Danny. 0-0 United.