Glory, glory...
We at 1430 believe in duality. Discourse. The unification of experience. Lemonade in the summertime. Good things. When we published the writings of Wasi Shung Han-ja, we knew it was only a matter of time before its opposite, the yang (though we are loath to mix Asian metaphors) to its yin appeared in good time. That said, we bring you the notes of Robin 'Cheggers' Wise, infantryman, trader, sailor, and West Ham fanatic for life. 1430 supports no such institutional devotion -- silly, it is -- though we do believe Eric Cantona to be the finest footballer the Premiership has ever seen.
Shocking, it was. 'Ere's ol' 'Arry, jus standin' there, juggling the ball, like. An' up walks this chap. But wait, I'm gettin' ahead of me self. Me Wanda always warns me 'bout that. I never saw 'im walk, persay. Come to fink of it I never even seen 'iz footprints. Like he rose right up outta the sand, poncey ghoulish bastard.
So he's standing there, balanced on the balls of 'iz feet like some sort of crane. I mean a bird. But not that kind of bird. Aww, fuck all. He was there, this chap. Wearin' this real flowin' garment. Me Wanda wouldda been jealous. Silk sashes, brocades, a scabbard, the whole bit, yeah. 'Ad 'iz hair tied up in a fancy little tail, kinda like ol' Davey had when we trussed 'im up in a blouse an' bloomers after he got pissed and passed out on deck. We nearly killed ourselves laughin at the bloke. Cracking winger though, that Davey. Fast feet, even though the bastard holds onto the ball for ages. Goddamn primadonnas everywhere.
Anyway, imagine that, this chap givin' us his glassy orbs right on the beach, like we're the odd ones about. Givin' us the ol' Apple Pie. A right Japanese geez. (Like that one, lads? Eh?) So this spectre of the afternoon seems interested in our little six aside. He wrinkled 'iz lips, like he was about to say somefin', but he didn't say noffin'. He 'ad this wizened moustache, some sort of wispy animal crawling all over 'iz face an' collected near 'iz jowls. Looked a proper wanker, like those twat dons I've seen in paintings at hall at me old school. A crap philosophe type who probably goes out to 'iz local pub and monopolizes the conversation. I'd like to see 'im come to Barnet and try dat. Like he'd even been off his island. Not like us anyway.
But there we were, sharin' space. Geordie was down the beach wiv Spanner, that ginger prick, 'aving a fag when they were supposed to be playin' defence. I knew that cuz our visitor was pointing at 'em, ballsy bastard. So I took it upon myself to break the proverbial ice. I says, "Hey Guvnor, fancy a few kicks?" and whaled one at him wiv my right foot. Fucking prick catches it, no problem. "Bollocks!" you say, but no! He did it all easy-peezy like. So we show 'im where to stand and all, in front of goal-like, and we start playing.
Bastard was brilliant. Fucking clean sheet. Saving everything, all while wearing somefin' my wife would look silly in. Never even mussed 'iz hair, the ponce. But fair play to him, he was much better than the calamity we had in front of our goal. Fucking shite, he is.
Shocking, it was. 'Ere's ol' 'Arry, jus standin' there, juggling the ball, like. An' up walks this chap. But wait, I'm gettin' ahead of me self. Me Wanda always warns me 'bout that. I never saw 'im walk, persay. Come to fink of it I never even seen 'iz footprints. Like he rose right up outta the sand, poncey ghoulish bastard.
So he's standing there, balanced on the balls of 'iz feet like some sort of crane. I mean a bird. But not that kind of bird. Aww, fuck all. He was there, this chap. Wearin' this real flowin' garment. Me Wanda wouldda been jealous. Silk sashes, brocades, a scabbard, the whole bit, yeah. 'Ad 'iz hair tied up in a fancy little tail, kinda like ol' Davey had when we trussed 'im up in a blouse an' bloomers after he got pissed and passed out on deck. We nearly killed ourselves laughin at the bloke. Cracking winger though, that Davey. Fast feet, even though the bastard holds onto the ball for ages. Goddamn primadonnas everywhere.
Anyway, imagine that, this chap givin' us his glassy orbs right on the beach, like we're the odd ones about. Givin' us the ol' Apple Pie. A right Japanese geez. (Like that one, lads? Eh?) So this spectre of the afternoon seems interested in our little six aside. He wrinkled 'iz lips, like he was about to say somefin', but he didn't say noffin'. He 'ad this wizened moustache, some sort of wispy animal crawling all over 'iz face an' collected near 'iz jowls. Looked a proper wanker, like those twat dons I've seen in paintings at hall at me old school. A crap philosophe type who probably goes out to 'iz local pub and monopolizes the conversation. I'd like to see 'im come to Barnet and try dat. Like he'd even been off his island. Not like us anyway.
But there we were, sharin' space. Geordie was down the beach wiv Spanner, that ginger prick, 'aving a fag when they were supposed to be playin' defence. I knew that cuz our visitor was pointing at 'em, ballsy bastard. So I took it upon myself to break the proverbial ice. I says, "Hey Guvnor, fancy a few kicks?" and whaled one at him wiv my right foot. Fucking prick catches it, no problem. "Bollocks!" you say, but no! He did it all easy-peezy like. So we show 'im where to stand and all, in front of goal-like, and we start playing.
Bastard was brilliant. Fucking clean sheet. Saving everything, all while wearing somefin' my wife would look silly in. Never even mussed 'iz hair, the ponce. But fair play to him, he was much better than the calamity we had in front of our goal. Fucking shite, he is.
posted by M.N.V.L. Local 1430 at 7:27 PM
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