Once more unto the breach, dear Yids, once more;
Or close the wall up with our Chick King boxes.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As Modders stillness and humility:
But when the blast of Azza Blud blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Steffen the Freundts, summon up the Thudd,
Disguise fair shoooooots with hard-favour’d range;
Then lend Arry’s twitching eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the large port drunk in bed
Like the brass cannon; let Sandro’s mono-brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled Bostock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded drum n’ base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful Defoe.
Now set the Jordan’s teeth and stretch the Gallas nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend 3 Metre Peter
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from London Gin 40° proof!
Fathers that, like Greavsie after 19 Brandy Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till last orders fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of buses home
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d Bill Nick did beget you.
Be copy now to men of bulging bagels,
And teach them how to war. And you, good Chirpy,
Whose limbs were made in N17, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble Lilywhite lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like Archibald in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Harry Redshnapps, Tottinghams, and Saint Burkinshaw!’
I had a dream last night – Thousands of people gathered around my home town team Annan Athletic’s Galabank Stadium pitch (no idea why that was the setting) howling and cat-calling as the Lilywhites and Los Blancos walked out from the changing rooms. Vitriol spewed from their faces every time a Spurs player got the ball – an army of locals screaming on Madrid. Real started badly, a mis-placed pass here, a blocked shot there and then Ramos got sent off about 15 minutes in for a cynical challenge on the boy Bale. It was 3-0 to the Hotspurs when my exuberant screaming woke me up.
We’re going to do this cos let’s face it the Champions League is so much easier than the Premiership. ;-)
Plus, Henry V. Nice!
I had a dream on Saturday, saw a horse running at Chepstow, called Todareistodo. Thought this is it, put my wedge on it, as you do. It didn’t come in the first ten places. Moral, don’t believe all that you dream, But in your case I hope it does for all of us. :winke:
Just like Gabrielle says “Dreams can come true”. Cannot wait until kick off, the anticipation is making it such a long day.
Water for the horses and beer for the men, for tonight we ride! for King and for Country! COYMFS!!!!!
That picture of Mr.Blessed, and the line “Steffen the Freunds”, has made my day. F**k this university work, I can’t concentrate :sideways: . Let’s silence these bernabeu schmucks..
This may be your finest work yet young Harold, I may be biased as you’ve parodied my favourite Shakespere play but good work nonetheless.
Tonight is what dreams are made of, here’s hoping our dreams don’t sour into a nightmare!
COYLW!
Cheers ;-)