Arthur Scrimshaw
New member
I see all the young whippersnappers are getting their hoodies and asbos in a twist regarding the current managerial and player situation. Let me tell you things have been far worse in the past than they have now. So grab a glass of best Port, roll out the high quality shag and find your favourite Meerschaum and sit back and relax whilst I delve into my scrapbook for some prewar fable.
If you think we have a lot of youngsters in our team now you should have supported us in the days after the First World War when the heart of the side was ripped apart by the grim battles on the Somme, Passchendaele and the Den. An entire team of mid table mediocrity was wiped out and the town mourned its loss for a few days until Fred Marden's exploding trouser circus arrived to fill our minds with mirth and jappery. The management soon had to visit local schools to find an assortment of midfielders, inside-rights, wing halves and goalkeepers. Games were lost through inexperience and losing vital team members when their parents called them in for tea before 4.45PM. The fans grew restive and took matters into their own hands when they publically lynched the manager Jock 'Jock' MacJock on discovering he was Scottish.
The team failed to live up to expectations and lost a promising 9 year old centre forward when he ran home to his mother crying after one of the fans called him a rude name. Indeed not only had the heart been ripped out the team but also the crowd who had lost the sensible, thoughtful blokes and replaced them with either old codgers or young acne-splattered whippersnappers who often ran through the former's ricket ridden legs to reach the front of the terraces. It came to something when one of the most prominent moaners was the local village idiot, Cecil the Monkey (British Village Idiot of the Year 1919 won when his marvellous attempt at putting up a dartboard came to halt when he forgot to hammer a nail into the wall and kept wondering why the board was always faling on his toes ) who had never previously exhibited any evidence of independent thought.
Things were getting bad, our promising 7 year old wing half was lost when he was sent to the workhouse after being orphaned and the 18 month old keeper's was sent off for reaching out his pram and hitting an opposing centre forward with his rattle (we were convinced that the ref was fooled by the dramatic dive to the floor clutching of the face routine). Things we so bad that the youth scheme consisted of the chairmen's young nubile nieces being told to lay on their backs keep a stiff upper lip and think of Albion and England in order to produce for the first team in a season or two's time. Furthermore, Mr Whacker's man management skills were called into question when it was rumoured he had the entire back four caned for falling to adhere to the offside trap and made the club captain stand by the corner flag with a dunces cap on when he missed an open goal. The young whippersnappers hated this whilst the old codgers believed that these methods bred true hardened Englishman who would carry the future beyond Division Three South and conquer an Empire. However, he soon showed some tactical nous in an important relegation battle he painted red spots on the faces of all the team who let it be known to the opposition that due to an injury crisis he had to play all the team with the contagious lurgy which meant a 5 year old Nobby Thrustwell was able to evade heavy physical challenges from grown men frightened to catch the deadly influenza and score a hat trick. Soon other tactical tricks followed, when an opposition keeper's shorts were ripped accidentally exposing himself to our 8 year old centre forward the latter told the referee he would tell the local policeman (who happened to be his dad) if he didn't send him off. The ref fearing the strong arm of the law obliged and another match was duly won. The team began to gel, players failing to follow on field instructions were sent to bed without any tea and those stamped and screamed and began crying when not picked for the first team were threatened with the coach's slipper.
The kids of 1919 flowered into the first rate teams of the 1920s and the young whippersnapper supporters who believed all managers should be tarred and feathered if they failed to win every game 8-0 were silenced. The moral of the story is one of patience when faced with a crisis one must puff on the pipe to gain intelligence and not let the knee jerk in every direction.
On that note the nurse has arrived with the balm for my swollen swonnicles and I must ready myself for the soothing application then a nice cup of horlicks and bed.
Toodle pip.
If you think we have a lot of youngsters in our team now you should have supported us in the days after the First World War when the heart of the side was ripped apart by the grim battles on the Somme, Passchendaele and the Den. An entire team of mid table mediocrity was wiped out and the town mourned its loss for a few days until Fred Marden's exploding trouser circus arrived to fill our minds with mirth and jappery. The management soon had to visit local schools to find an assortment of midfielders, inside-rights, wing halves and goalkeepers. Games were lost through inexperience and losing vital team members when their parents called them in for tea before 4.45PM. The fans grew restive and took matters into their own hands when they publically lynched the manager Jock 'Jock' MacJock on discovering he was Scottish.
The team failed to live up to expectations and lost a promising 9 year old centre forward when he ran home to his mother crying after one of the fans called him a rude name. Indeed not only had the heart been ripped out the team but also the crowd who had lost the sensible, thoughtful blokes and replaced them with either old codgers or young acne-splattered whippersnappers who often ran through the former's ricket ridden legs to reach the front of the terraces. It came to something when one of the most prominent moaners was the local village idiot, Cecil the Monkey (British Village Idiot of the Year 1919 won when his marvellous attempt at putting up a dartboard came to halt when he forgot to hammer a nail into the wall and kept wondering why the board was always faling on his toes ) who had never previously exhibited any evidence of independent thought.
Things were getting bad, our promising 7 year old wing half was lost when he was sent to the workhouse after being orphaned and the 18 month old keeper's was sent off for reaching out his pram and hitting an opposing centre forward with his rattle (we were convinced that the ref was fooled by the dramatic dive to the floor clutching of the face routine). Things we so bad that the youth scheme consisted of the chairmen's young nubile nieces being told to lay on their backs keep a stiff upper lip and think of Albion and England in order to produce for the first team in a season or two's time. Furthermore, Mr Whacker's man management skills were called into question when it was rumoured he had the entire back four caned for falling to adhere to the offside trap and made the club captain stand by the corner flag with a dunces cap on when he missed an open goal. The young whippersnappers hated this whilst the old codgers believed that these methods bred true hardened Englishman who would carry the future beyond Division Three South and conquer an Empire. However, he soon showed some tactical nous in an important relegation battle he painted red spots on the faces of all the team who let it be known to the opposition that due to an injury crisis he had to play all the team with the contagious lurgy which meant a 5 year old Nobby Thrustwell was able to evade heavy physical challenges from grown men frightened to catch the deadly influenza and score a hat trick. Soon other tactical tricks followed, when an opposition keeper's shorts were ripped accidentally exposing himself to our 8 year old centre forward the latter told the referee he would tell the local policeman (who happened to be his dad) if he didn't send him off. The ref fearing the strong arm of the law obliged and another match was duly won. The team began to gel, players failing to follow on field instructions were sent to bed without any tea and those stamped and screamed and began crying when not picked for the first team were threatened with the coach's slipper.
The kids of 1919 flowered into the first rate teams of the 1920s and the young whippersnapper supporters who believed all managers should be tarred and feathered if they failed to win every game 8-0 were silenced. The moral of the story is one of patience when faced with a crisis one must puff on the pipe to gain intelligence and not let the knee jerk in every direction.
On that note the nurse has arrived with the balm for my swollen swonnicles and I must ready myself for the soothing application then a nice cup of horlicks and bed.
Toodle pip.
well said old boy 
