All I Want For Christmas Is A Dukla Prague Away Kit
A mate of my Dad's died a few weeks ago. Bob. I suppose I knew him for 20 years or so. A cheerful soul who worshipped Manchester City with a passion. Sky blue and white flowers on his coffin. A serious supporter. On the odd occasion I saw him he would spout forth on the shortcomings of the present team - a team that could never ever again recapture the glory years of the mid fifties and the late sixties. Bob was also an enthusiastic amateur footballer in his day. I knew this from the discussions I had had with him over the years. He bemoaned the lack of physical contact in today's game. "It's girl's game nowadays" he would pronounce after his third pint of mild. "What's wrong with a well-executed shoulder charge? It used to be allowed once. Not today though."
Bob blamed the foreign influence on our modern game but did concede that the NHS was stretched enough as it was without weekend influxes of football-related injuries.
At Bob's funeral we learned just how much of an avid proponent Bob was of the "physical game" during his illustrious amateur footballing career.
The Vicar spake thus:
"Bob was an enthustiastic member of any team he played for. In those days - back in the forties and fifties - Bob's hair was a shock of ginger. This led to his sobriquet "Dirty Ginger Bob" for he was, indeed, possibly the dirtiest player ever to grace the amateur leagues of the North West."
The Vicar went on to speculate that there could possibly be folk out there still sporting scar tissue as a result of a tussle with Bob.
I guess if you're going to leave your mark, scar tissue's as good a way as any.
Give God a kick from me Bob.
This was huge back in 1975 - certainly where I lived anyway. Poor old Stefan. I always reckoned that because he was "different" the police didn't look for anyone else - a typical case of "fitting" someone up to fit the crime instead of getting off their fat arses and finding the real culprit.
Not long before 1975 he would have swung. As it happens he lost sixteen years of his life and died a year after his release. Tragic.
I don't know if anyone remembers the little chav/scrote/ned/prick I caught three years back? Y'know the one who was trying to put a firework in the post box that I had just posted Dearest's sick note after her major surgery. Well, Sunday Dearest and I set off for our traditional early evening drinky-poos with our friends, "Ahh I'll post my
Amazon DVD Rental disc on the way to the pub."
An hour or so later we noticed a Fire Engine's flashing lights quite close but paid no heed as we caroused, joked and quaffed.
Later, as we walked home we passed the post box and noticed a hell of a lot of water round it on what was a clear night.
Sure enough I've had it confirmed that Amazon haven't received the disk. Melted. Gone.
Twats.
This morning I had to phone our help desk in India. Cue automated voice telling me that I would have to wait for three minutes as all their operatives were currently busy.
