London Pompous
Active member
- Feb 16, 2008
- 660
Listen you slaaaags. Whilst you head wobblers were all getting your pictures taken at the United megastore last Saturday with one of the OB from Sussex who is a facking United fan (orright PC Daz BTW), us old lags were keeping up the reputation of the Albion by getting facking stuck into those cannnts with some serious toe to toe, at the first ever GBBO (Great British Bovver Off) for nawty lads.
It had all been arranged weeks in advance, using carrier pigeons, to avoid the OB from intercepting our WhatsApp group (known as ALBPAL Top Boys for those ITK of course) and bringing in a couple of dozen fans of ROZZERS to stop the carnage.
After a bit of a standoff, it was agreed it was going to be our top four versus theirs, so it was me, Big Vern, Scratchcard and Size Five, versus the NigeLLLLLLson quadruplets, Nigel, Nige, Nigella and Nigey-Wigey.
It all started at abaht 6:30 am, up early, no booze the previous night as we wanted our heads to be straight, although Big Vern did confess to having a half of lager top to stop his hands from shaking, and so was a bit hungover.
We were supposed to be going incommunicado to not be seen by the Palace lookouts (apart from Big Vern, who went commando, due to having had an over vigorous testicle shave the previous day, and not wanting to get blood stains on his grundies, unless it was that of a Palace cannnt following a bundle).
Poor start, as Southern Rail facked up as usual, leaving us stranded at Three Bridges for an hour, which caused some of my frozen berries to defrost a little too rapidly. Fortunately Size Five’s missus came to the rescue and drove up with his mark II Austin Allegro to ensure we completed the journey.
When we arrived at the Palace boozer where the confrontation was due to take place. It was in the heart of their territory, where the BBC were about to start filming the prequel to Life On Mars, on the grounds that they’d save money as didn’t need to make any adjustments to the clothes, the cars, the teeth or the houses of the locality whilst filming, but would still get an authentic 70’s backdrop to the program.
The boozer (The Penny in The Pound for those that know the area) took a bit of time to clear up, as there had been a massive bust up the previous night. The pub had held a competition for Norbury’s most glamourous grandmother, and the women who won it was later discovered to be over 30 years old, which was clearly against the rules, bringing shame on herself, her family, her social workers and her electronic tag.
It had kicked off big style, with furniture being thrown and windows smashed, causing several thousand pounds worth of improvements to property values in the surrounding area.
We knew we were outnumbered, we knew the odds were stacked against us, and fair play to the NigeLLLLLLson quadruplets, they had narrowly won a big baking compo against Millwall the previous week with a Black Forest Gateau superbly designed to resemble a dead rat on top of some burning tyres, fittingly called ‘What I did last holidays apart from your mum’ by the quadruplets.
We were then introduced to the judges, all from the local area. Fack me, they looked well dodgy, and links to the baking world tenuous. One was a security guard at a branch of Greggs, apparently recruited because by the branch manager because he had a wonky eye, and so could scan a wider area of the floor area, in case anyone tried to shoplift a cheese slice or scotch pie. He had a stammer and a weak bladder too, he was Paul Cricklewood, not Paul Hollywood.
The female judge Delia ‘Turkey’ Smith, not to be mistaken for the one who owns Norwich. She was known as Turkey because so many blokes had been up her blurtch one Boxing Day her downstairs area like the bird of the same name on the same day, crinkly skin, cold to the touch, flaps hanging loosely from both sides, unwise to eat and smelt slightly of sage and onion.
When enough 50 pence pieces had been found (by emptying out the Salvation Army collection tin at the front of the bar) to get the electric meter working in the oven, we were off.
The judges had told us to produce something that reminds us of home, so the NigeLLLLLLson quadruplets immediately tried to create a marzipan caravan, with a scooped out Battenberg to resemble a paddling pool full of dog turds (raisins), and a victoria sponge fire engine having its wheels removed by locals whilst attending a local blaze at a pawn shop.
We’d gone for a traditional seaside view, layering gingerbread and shortbread to mimic the Palace Pier, some caramelised sugar and blue colour to resemble the sea, and for added authenticity a set of Cadbury’s chocolate fingers slightly melted and joined together to make a boat. We tried to create a likeness of a man from the xxxxxxx family (name removed on the advice of the NSC lawyers) made from icing, rowing in the direction of the West Pier with three cans of petrol and a match.
The timer was getting close to the finish time, but both teams managed to get their magnificent efforts finished just in time.
It was then up to the judges to make their final decision, we were first in line. Paul Cricklewood was a bit sniffy, but that was because he’d forgotten to take the Vick’s Vapor Rub his mum had told him to use before setting off to work that day. He had a quick nibble of one of the walls of the arcade of the Pier, pronouncing it ‘light, fluffy if a little dry (a bit like my wife’s snatch if truth be told), and conceded that it was a good effort.
Delia ‘Turkey’ Smith, who you could hear from three streets away due to amount of vaginal jewellery she wore, (causes a major issue at airport security I am led to believe), had a taste of the helter skelter meringue immaculately created by Scratchcard, and said it removed the the taste of stale jizz from when she noshed off all the staff in the local branch of Tesco the previous evening in exchange for a packet of free chicken twizzlers for her eight kids.
We then were nervous, their manor, their judges, the odds were remote. However, as the NigeLLLLLLson quadruplets walked over with their (admittedly impressive) creation to the judges table, Big Vern, who had been to Uncle Sam’s the previous night and consumed two Double Chilli and Cheeseburgers, decided to let one rip and unfortunately sharted.
As he was wearing no trolleys a stream of liquid feeshus shot down his trouser leg, and onto the pub floor. The Quadruplets skidded on the sea of liquid brown, dropping their cake, smashing it into small pieces.
The judges reluctantly said it was a technical KO, and we were therefore the winners. We grabbed the trophy, the locals suddenly looked ugly, although that was probably the way they always look to be fair, but we ran for the door, apart from Big Vern, who walked gingerly, John Wayne style to avoid further damage to his trousers.
We made it to the Allegro just in time, flicked some ‘V’’s at our pursuers, and drove home (with the windows open, as Big Vern’s arse was lethal for the full journey).
So when you pups see us with the GBBO trophy in Dick’s Bar tomorrow, just remember you slaaags, we are already one nil up before the game starts, and you owe it all to us old lags.
Remember is PC Balkham is watching this, you can’t catch us, we are the invincibles, keeping this club’s reputation up since 1972 when it comes to getting one over on Palace.
God Bless Cass Pennant and the Queen.
Regards
LP
It had all been arranged weeks in advance, using carrier pigeons, to avoid the OB from intercepting our WhatsApp group (known as ALBPAL Top Boys for those ITK of course) and bringing in a couple of dozen fans of ROZZERS to stop the carnage.
After a bit of a standoff, it was agreed it was going to be our top four versus theirs, so it was me, Big Vern, Scratchcard and Size Five, versus the NigeLLLLLLson quadruplets, Nigel, Nige, Nigella and Nigey-Wigey.
It all started at abaht 6:30 am, up early, no booze the previous night as we wanted our heads to be straight, although Big Vern did confess to having a half of lager top to stop his hands from shaking, and so was a bit hungover.
We were supposed to be going incommunicado to not be seen by the Palace lookouts (apart from Big Vern, who went commando, due to having had an over vigorous testicle shave the previous day, and not wanting to get blood stains on his grundies, unless it was that of a Palace cannnt following a bundle).
Poor start, as Southern Rail facked up as usual, leaving us stranded at Three Bridges for an hour, which caused some of my frozen berries to defrost a little too rapidly. Fortunately Size Five’s missus came to the rescue and drove up with his mark II Austin Allegro to ensure we completed the journey.
When we arrived at the Palace boozer where the confrontation was due to take place. It was in the heart of their territory, where the BBC were about to start filming the prequel to Life On Mars, on the grounds that they’d save money as didn’t need to make any adjustments to the clothes, the cars, the teeth or the houses of the locality whilst filming, but would still get an authentic 70’s backdrop to the program.
The boozer (The Penny in The Pound for those that know the area) took a bit of time to clear up, as there had been a massive bust up the previous night. The pub had held a competition for Norbury’s most glamourous grandmother, and the women who won it was later discovered to be over 30 years old, which was clearly against the rules, bringing shame on herself, her family, her social workers and her electronic tag.
It had kicked off big style, with furniture being thrown and windows smashed, causing several thousand pounds worth of improvements to property values in the surrounding area.
We knew we were outnumbered, we knew the odds were stacked against us, and fair play to the NigeLLLLLLson quadruplets, they had narrowly won a big baking compo against Millwall the previous week with a Black Forest Gateau superbly designed to resemble a dead rat on top of some burning tyres, fittingly called ‘What I did last holidays apart from your mum’ by the quadruplets.
We were then introduced to the judges, all from the local area. Fack me, they looked well dodgy, and links to the baking world tenuous. One was a security guard at a branch of Greggs, apparently recruited because by the branch manager because he had a wonky eye, and so could scan a wider area of the floor area, in case anyone tried to shoplift a cheese slice or scotch pie. He had a stammer and a weak bladder too, he was Paul Cricklewood, not Paul Hollywood.
The female judge Delia ‘Turkey’ Smith, not to be mistaken for the one who owns Norwich. She was known as Turkey because so many blokes had been up her blurtch one Boxing Day her downstairs area like the bird of the same name on the same day, crinkly skin, cold to the touch, flaps hanging loosely from both sides, unwise to eat and smelt slightly of sage and onion.
When enough 50 pence pieces had been found (by emptying out the Salvation Army collection tin at the front of the bar) to get the electric meter working in the oven, we were off.
The judges had told us to produce something that reminds us of home, so the NigeLLLLLLson quadruplets immediately tried to create a marzipan caravan, with a scooped out Battenberg to resemble a paddling pool full of dog turds (raisins), and a victoria sponge fire engine having its wheels removed by locals whilst attending a local blaze at a pawn shop.
We’d gone for a traditional seaside view, layering gingerbread and shortbread to mimic the Palace Pier, some caramelised sugar and blue colour to resemble the sea, and for added authenticity a set of Cadbury’s chocolate fingers slightly melted and joined together to make a boat. We tried to create a likeness of a man from the xxxxxxx family (name removed on the advice of the NSC lawyers) made from icing, rowing in the direction of the West Pier with three cans of petrol and a match.
The timer was getting close to the finish time, but both teams managed to get their magnificent efforts finished just in time.
It was then up to the judges to make their final decision, we were first in line. Paul Cricklewood was a bit sniffy, but that was because he’d forgotten to take the Vick’s Vapor Rub his mum had told him to use before setting off to work that day. He had a quick nibble of one of the walls of the arcade of the Pier, pronouncing it ‘light, fluffy if a little dry (a bit like my wife’s snatch if truth be told), and conceded that it was a good effort.
Delia ‘Turkey’ Smith, who you could hear from three streets away due to amount of vaginal jewellery she wore, (causes a major issue at airport security I am led to believe), had a taste of the helter skelter meringue immaculately created by Scratchcard, and said it removed the the taste of stale jizz from when she noshed off all the staff in the local branch of Tesco the previous evening in exchange for a packet of free chicken twizzlers for her eight kids.
We then were nervous, their manor, their judges, the odds were remote. However, as the NigeLLLLLLson quadruplets walked over with their (admittedly impressive) creation to the judges table, Big Vern, who had been to Uncle Sam’s the previous night and consumed two Double Chilli and Cheeseburgers, decided to let one rip and unfortunately sharted.
As he was wearing no trolleys a stream of liquid feeshus shot down his trouser leg, and onto the pub floor. The Quadruplets skidded on the sea of liquid brown, dropping their cake, smashing it into small pieces.
The judges reluctantly said it was a technical KO, and we were therefore the winners. We grabbed the trophy, the locals suddenly looked ugly, although that was probably the way they always look to be fair, but we ran for the door, apart from Big Vern, who walked gingerly, John Wayne style to avoid further damage to his trousers.
We made it to the Allegro just in time, flicked some ‘V’’s at our pursuers, and drove home (with the windows open, as Big Vern’s arse was lethal for the full journey).
So when you pups see us with the GBBO trophy in Dick’s Bar tomorrow, just remember you slaaags, we are already one nil up before the game starts, and you owe it all to us old lags.
Remember is PC Balkham is watching this, you can’t catch us, we are the invincibles, keeping this club’s reputation up since 1972 when it comes to getting one over on Palace.
God Bless Cass Pennant and the Queen.
Regards
LP
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