Wednesday, 27 July 2016

The Smell Of Embrocation

"My wife said she fancied a romantic summer evening down by the Thames."  "Hampton Court?"
"You're not kidding, I could barely whip it out quick enough."

My favourite comedian of all time is music hall legend Max Miller - the Cheeky Chappie - banned for life from the BBC for his famous Blue Book of filthy gags.  I wouldn't cross the road to watch any of today's expensively educated, Guardianista stand ups.  In fact a mate of mine recently asked if I wanted to see Mark Steele at the Harry Secombe Centre and I pointed out that if I wanted to listen to some loud mouthed, opinionated Palace twat I could do it for nothing in any boozer around Thornton Heath Ponds.


We're heeeeere!


See, what I'm doing here is setting the scene for the Hampton and Richmond away PSF at their gaff which involved a trip past Hampton Court while listening to Max Miller via the in car wireless.  While I'm at it, the trip also took me past the Marquis of Granby on the Scilly Isles.

I shudder to remember a Sunday night there back in the late seventies when we narrowly avoided a serious kicking from a bunch of bikers after Barney, a ringer for the lead singer out of dodgy Oi band 'Barney and the Rubble's, thought it would be a laugh to chant "You smelly bastards" at them.  Ironically, the last time I saw Barney was round my old man's when he mixed Creme de Menthe and Harvey's Bristol Cream in a pint glass and promptly shat himself on the settee.  You will not be surprised to hear he was from Bognor.

So, I pull the Nissan Elgrand off the riverside road and park up in my favourite slot just down the end of that alley that leads up to the Hampton ground car park. Let me tell you now, I like an away trip to Hampton with its quirky and well serviced set up and I wish the club well. Have always enjoyed a trip down there and I'm pleased that they are on a bit of a roll at the moment.


Why use 1 coat when 30 will do?

There's already a decent crowd milling about as I queue up for admission. It's seven notes and I opt not to pull the pensioner stunt as its only two sovs difference and I'm looking tanned and ripped and don't want to take the piss, not here anyway.

I'm in a good mood but my heart sinks when I see what they've done to their beautiful old turnstiles with their 1897 patent, smothered them in coat after coat of battleship grey Hammerite so you can barely see the engraved brass writing. Sacrilege , sort it out guys and show your turnstiles some love. They reek of local footballing history and should be given some respect.

Anyway, I spring through and the first person I see is Nick, a Beaver man who I met when I was playing down at Tolpuddle a couple of weeks back who is here with his lad Joe and his old man. They are chuffed to have landed a money spinning game against vastly superior, nationally famous opposition like us and I like that kind of deference. 


Looks secure to us!


The depleted ranks of the Cheam Park DILFs are also on parade, I ask them for some Intel on the new lad we have trialling up front but predictably they know fuck all other than suggesting he's Italian. He's French of course, but there you go.

Luckily Dukey then strides across.

"Whose this Maxime up front?"
"Maxine? Isn't that a birds name?"

Makes you wonder why Germaine Greer ever bothered doesn't it?

Worner, Amankwaah, Wishart, Beckwith, Eastmond, Collins, Hudson-Odoi, Gomis, Biamou, Bailey, Stearn  SUBS: Doherty, Dundas, John, Fitchett, Cooper, Downer, Burge Shaw

Bacon and Harry are in as well tonight, so we take up position behind the goal but who's this heading for the stands? Fuck me, it's Gerry Francis, I balls up getting a picture of him with Duke as I'm lost in wonderment at the strength of human spirit that drives a man to keep a full on mullet in place through thick and thin right into your sixties. Bloody marvellous. Anyway Gerry pisses off after about twenty minutes and I can't help thinking he actually came to the wrong ground due to some sort of satnav fiasco and just followed the floodlights and the smell of embrocation. 


Mesmerising to Gerry...


Oh yeah, then there's some football but it's standard PSF dross and nothing much happens til it's time for a half time slipper and a cup of splosh. 

We head up the other end and being nosy bastards we look through a little gate and there's a secret garden with a spooky looking shed and a great big fuck off vat full of who knows what.  Weird and unsettling.

The second half is a bit livelier.  We go one up with a goal from Max, they equalise and then get a winner at the death from what looked like a major faux pas in the rearguard. We spend most of the half exchanging Top Bantz with the clubs official photographer and shouting for penalties that never existed. 


Get in there Maxine!


So, not much learnt there and I think we are all just itching for the real deal to get going.  Not long now kids. With that we head back across the water with Max Miller in full flow and with the lights of Hampton Court twinkling in the rear view mirror and the Scilly Isles up ahead.

Totts

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