Prior to this fixture, I was invited to the North-West in order to present a paper, composed as a counterblast to the regrettable Creationist movement which is the bane of all liberals such as myself. I wished to demonstrate that man did indeed evolve from apes, and, in order to illustrate my point, introduce at the lectern live specimens, men and women from the North who displayed vaguely human-like tendencies but unarguably demonstrated the existence of the evolutionary scale, inasmuch as they were much further down upon it, indeed, swinging baboon-like from its very base, beating their hairy breasts and bellowing preposterous, unintelligible sentiments such as “Coom on Borlton!” And “I 'orpe Borlton win, I do, me, like, oh, aye.” My aim is Enlightenment.
As part of my research, I had the privilege of visiting a pairing of these “Bolton” people, of whose existence I must admit I had heard only rumours or glimpsed at fleeting, unverifiable footage, in their own habitat - some sort of kennel-cum-terraced dwelling. Why they chose to live in such cramped confines, without extensive lawns, or even a study, begs a perhaps unanswerable question regarding their inscrutable obduracy. Towards myself, they displayed behaviour which could almost be compared to that of actual Hampstead human beings. Their names, or the names conferred upon them, were “Gary” and “Tracy”. At the risk of becoming excessively anthropomorphic, the way they shuffled me along and bade me sit down on a settee was similar to our own concept of “hospitality” when greeting a stranger. In behaviour doubtless learned from the television advertisements featuring bowler-hatted monkeys, one of them even offered me a cup of tea. I accepted this politely, though since I could not verify its provenance, I felt that the only tactful thing to do was discreetly pour the beverage away in a gap between my seat cushion and the sofa arm. For obvious reasons, I had a handkerchief over my nose for the entire visit; when “Tracy”, in some vague approximation of the English language asked if anything was the matter, I replied that this was how handkerchiefs were worn in London. It is improbable that she will ever leave her own street, let alone make it to the Metropolis to verify my white (and, indeed, cambric) lie. I have no doubt my answer satisfied her, not least since she did not speak to me at all for the remainder of my thankfully brief visit.
I then repaired with all available dispatch to my executive berth at the Bolton stadium. On feeling a few drops of rain, however, and with the temperature plunging below 10 degrees, I naturally had my driver keep the engine to my car running outside the stadium, in expectation that the fixture would be abandoned due to poor weather and, since asking Arsenal's players to repeat the ordeal of venturing this far up North a second time would be out of the question given our schedule, that M. Wenger generously agree that the match be declared a 3-0 win to Arsenal.
To my gaping astonishment, however, the match was allowed to proceed. Now, this is Springtime. In Hyde Park, young fellows are out walking with their whangees taking in the blossom fragrance, as lissom young ladies perform eurhythmics under the supervision of their governesses. Up in the North West, however, an altogether different micro-climate prevailed. Truly, as the precipitation reduced the pitch to a Triassic quagmire, one realised just why these “Bolton” people lag so far behind us, why they regard their own thumbs not as useful appendages but as curious swellings which they presumably attempt to saw off with blunt implements of their own, crude devising. At one point, during the opening 20 minutes, I swear I spotted a pterodactyl swoop by.
How were Arsenal supposed to perform, in a climate in which the calendar had reverted from “AD” to “BC”? Imagine if, in a fit of inexplicable impertinence, Italian peasants had insisted that Leonardo Da Vinci, in order to prove his superiority as a painter, had been challenged, in some base, open field to see how his painting of the Mona Lisa compared with their local hero, “Enzo”, employed locally in the capacity of goatwiper, who would render his own composition in oils, “A Pottato I Once Et”. As the skies opened, naturally, one would imagine that an end to this insanity would be called for and everyone scurry for cover, but no – the cry would go up that it was “the same for both painters”, compounded with jeers that Da Vinci “might not fancy” painting in such conditions and what a ludicrous sodomite he was for wearing gloves. This was no nightmare but the reality that prevailed this day. And, be warned, the goatwipers almost prevailed. Thankfully, the memory that they were under the care of one Gary Megson (one hesitates to elevate such a peabrained little dogsbody with barely the motor skills to wipe his nose with the title of manager – perhaps “under-janitor” will suffice?) caused Bolton to acquiesce, involuntarily, to the natural order of things. Yes, they struggled, yes, they fought, but this was in the manner of mongrel dogs being dragged to the veterinarians to be neutered. It had to be done.
It is no exaggeration to say that, had Arsenal not won today, Civilisation would have been dragged into the evolutionary quicksand. Results like this, if allowed to stand, could mean only one thing – that within a generation, mankind would be back down on all fours, peeling bananas with its toes. To see that this could not possibly happen again, measures have to be taken. Here is one. Arsenal fans – ruminative, inward-looking types by nature are pilloried by the base for making insufficient noise. On the contrary – what a splendid message it would send out to humanity were Arsenal to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for their contribution to reducing the raucousness of modern football. A second is that we revert to the system that prevailed until the mid-1960s in the Football League, the days of the Third Division North and Third Division South. The purpose of this division was to establish a sort of “upper” and “lower” streaming – it was unthinkable that the team who finished bottom in the Third Division South could ever be beaten by the team who finished top in the Third Division North. Certainly, it could never be allowed to happen. I propose that the Premier League be similarly divided up into three tiers. The top one, naturally, would consist of The Premier League (South), the second tier The Premier League (West) headed by Chelsea, who have the misfortune to sit the wrong side of the Albert Memorial, with the lower tier consisting of the Premier League (North). There could be no possibility of the teams from the three tiers meeting, thereby preserving Arsenal's place at the apex of British football indefinitely. The third is that the Boltonians, and, for that matter, the remainder of the festering rabble who make up the population of the North West, be herded for the general good into the Irish Sea and their wetland habitat be given over to several endangered British species of wading bird. It would be a scandal, to my mind, if for example the Black Tailed Godwit were allowed to lapse into extinction. Arsenal! Six games, one win! Van Persie's lethal finishing! Gallas's manly courage in the face of a tame daisycutter from Matt Taylor! We're back!
As part of my research, I had the privilege of visiting a pairing of these “Bolton” people, of whose existence I must admit I had heard only rumours or glimpsed at fleeting, unverifiable footage, in their own habitat - some sort of kennel-cum-terraced dwelling. Why they chose to live in such cramped confines, without extensive lawns, or even a study, begs a perhaps unanswerable question regarding their inscrutable obduracy. Towards myself, they displayed behaviour which could almost be compared to that of actual Hampstead human beings. Their names, or the names conferred upon them, were “Gary” and “Tracy”. At the risk of becoming excessively anthropomorphic, the way they shuffled me along and bade me sit down on a settee was similar to our own concept of “hospitality” when greeting a stranger. In behaviour doubtless learned from the television advertisements featuring bowler-hatted monkeys, one of them even offered me a cup of tea. I accepted this politely, though since I could not verify its provenance, I felt that the only tactful thing to do was discreetly pour the beverage away in a gap between my seat cushion and the sofa arm. For obvious reasons, I had a handkerchief over my nose for the entire visit; when “Tracy”, in some vague approximation of the English language asked if anything was the matter, I replied that this was how handkerchiefs were worn in London. It is improbable that she will ever leave her own street, let alone make it to the Metropolis to verify my white (and, indeed, cambric) lie. I have no doubt my answer satisfied her, not least since she did not speak to me at all for the remainder of my thankfully brief visit.
I then repaired with all available dispatch to my executive berth at the Bolton stadium. On feeling a few drops of rain, however, and with the temperature plunging below 10 degrees, I naturally had my driver keep the engine to my car running outside the stadium, in expectation that the fixture would be abandoned due to poor weather and, since asking Arsenal's players to repeat the ordeal of venturing this far up North a second time would be out of the question given our schedule, that M. Wenger generously agree that the match be declared a 3-0 win to Arsenal.
To my gaping astonishment, however, the match was allowed to proceed. Now, this is Springtime. In Hyde Park, young fellows are out walking with their whangees taking in the blossom fragrance, as lissom young ladies perform eurhythmics under the supervision of their governesses. Up in the North West, however, an altogether different micro-climate prevailed. Truly, as the precipitation reduced the pitch to a Triassic quagmire, one realised just why these “Bolton” people lag so far behind us, why they regard their own thumbs not as useful appendages but as curious swellings which they presumably attempt to saw off with blunt implements of their own, crude devising. At one point, during the opening 20 minutes, I swear I spotted a pterodactyl swoop by.
How were Arsenal supposed to perform, in a climate in which the calendar had reverted from “AD” to “BC”? Imagine if, in a fit of inexplicable impertinence, Italian peasants had insisted that Leonardo Da Vinci, in order to prove his superiority as a painter, had been challenged, in some base, open field to see how his painting of the Mona Lisa compared with their local hero, “Enzo”, employed locally in the capacity of goatwiper, who would render his own composition in oils, “A Pottato I Once Et”. As the skies opened, naturally, one would imagine that an end to this insanity would be called for and everyone scurry for cover, but no – the cry would go up that it was “the same for both painters”, compounded with jeers that Da Vinci “might not fancy” painting in such conditions and what a ludicrous sodomite he was for wearing gloves. This was no nightmare but the reality that prevailed this day. And, be warned, the goatwipers almost prevailed. Thankfully, the memory that they were under the care of one Gary Megson (one hesitates to elevate such a peabrained little dogsbody with barely the motor skills to wipe his nose with the title of manager – perhaps “under-janitor” will suffice?) caused Bolton to acquiesce, involuntarily, to the natural order of things. Yes, they struggled, yes, they fought, but this was in the manner of mongrel dogs being dragged to the veterinarians to be neutered. It had to be done.
It is no exaggeration to say that, had Arsenal not won today, Civilisation would have been dragged into the evolutionary quicksand. Results like this, if allowed to stand, could mean only one thing – that within a generation, mankind would be back down on all fours, peeling bananas with its toes. To see that this could not possibly happen again, measures have to be taken. Here is one. Arsenal fans – ruminative, inward-looking types by nature are pilloried by the base for making insufficient noise. On the contrary – what a splendid message it would send out to humanity were Arsenal to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for their contribution to reducing the raucousness of modern football. A second is that we revert to the system that prevailed until the mid-1960s in the Football League, the days of the Third Division North and Third Division South. The purpose of this division was to establish a sort of “upper” and “lower” streaming – it was unthinkable that the team who finished bottom in the Third Division South could ever be beaten by the team who finished top in the Third Division North. Certainly, it could never be allowed to happen. I propose that the Premier League be similarly divided up into three tiers. The top one, naturally, would consist of The Premier League (South), the second tier The Premier League (West) headed by Chelsea, who have the misfortune to sit the wrong side of the Albert Memorial, with the lower tier consisting of the Premier League (North). There could be no possibility of the teams from the three tiers meeting, thereby preserving Arsenal's place at the apex of British football indefinitely. The third is that the Boltonians, and, for that matter, the remainder of the festering rabble who make up the population of the North West, be herded for the general good into the Irish Sea and their wetland habitat be given over to several endangered British species of wading bird. It would be a scandal, to my mind, if for example the Black Tailed Godwit were allowed to lapse into extinction. Arsenal! Six games, one win! Van Persie's lethal finishing! Gallas's manly courage in the face of a tame daisycutter from Matt Taylor! We're back!
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