London Pompous
Active member
- Feb 16, 2008
- 660
Listen you slaaaaaags, Saturday is important innit, and I and the rest of the HACC have put some extra antifreeze in the Austin Allegro, and we're out of retirement and looking meaner than Arnie, Sly, Dolph and Jason Stafam in The Expendables. We're the Hove Actually Cavemen Crew Palace, and we haven't had our breakfast (apart from some croissants from Tesco Express and some Cheeky Tizer).
For those of you PUSSIES Not in the know, last season before the game at Palace saw one of the greatest Climaxes since I shot me duff over Cheryl Cole doing her debut single on X Factor. We'd been in touch with some of Palace's HARDEST before the match, not through the internet or mobile phones, never can be too sure, OB could be tracing, or PC Beard may have been tipped off, but we used saucy seaside postcards sent to my mum, and to that of Palace's Number 1 naughty boy, Nigel 'Nige' Nigelson but in a code that even the Enigma machine would not have cracked.
The meet was at their main boozer, The Bankrupt Former Chairmen (TBFC to those ITK). We used a bit of stealth to get past their lookouts, as we all went disguised as teenage mums, and therefore blended in perfectly with the locals.
It was an elite crew, myself, Big Vern, Uncle Morty, Scratchcard and Size 5, a firm so feared that the police in Brighton used to ask us to look after West Street when they went on their holidays to San Francisco.
I kicked open the doors to TBFC, strolled to the bar, pram before me, and ripped off my 10 inch hoopie earrings, pink velour tracksuit and scrunched back hair in a ponytail. There was an audible gasp from the Palace NUTTERS, who had been having a casual game of Flick The Bogey, they knew they had been outmanoeuvred, and weren't fully ready for the onslaught that was coming their way.
'Where's Nige', I drawled, he stood up from his game of dominoes, "Who'se facking asking you cannnt", he replied. " Jemima Puddleduck, Peter Rabbit, Squirrel Nutkin", I said, with a cocked eyebrow, it was the first three lines of the code, "Mrs Tiggy Winkle, Tom Kitten, Pigling Bland", he responded, I knew that it was the right response, no filth would have decoded our Beatrix Potter mug collection order, we both knew it was the top crews of both the Albion and Palace about to go toe to toe.
Nige called first, and we facked up, it was Impressions, and I had been worried about this for some time, Size 5's Norman Wisdom lacked gravitas, Big Vern's Frank Spencer had too many 'ooh Betty's, and even my Alan Whicker was missing it's usual metronomic timimg. The judges awarded the round to Palace, and fair play, one of their lads did a Larry Grayson so accurately that even I was half expecting Slack Alice to put in an appearance.
The next three games were to and fro, we managed to just win Twister, despite Uncle Morty's dodgy knee and his colostomy bag splitting open when he tried to split an orange and green circle. We then went 2-1 up on Name That Tune, mainly due to Big Vern's encyclopaedic recall of the Best of the Osmonds, which trounced Palace's attempts with The Three Degrees (still would though, but not the one on the right, always thought she had a wonky eye).
Palace came roaring back on Capital Cities, I was gobsmacked that a place where The Daily Star is considered highbrow would produce someone who knew that the capital of Mauritania was Nouakchott, although later investigation revealed that his mum had been bought from there by his old man for £30 and a pack of Capstan Full Strength.
It was 2-2, eyes narrowed, my versus Nige, and it was Strictly time. I started with a Tango, followed by a Diet Coke (Boom Boom), although my arms were all over the place, Craig Revell Hall didn't like it, the others were so so, so I only got 5, 6, 6, 6. Nige went for broke, he flashed his castanets and gave it all with his cha-cha-cha. Three sevens and an 8 meant I was looking down the barrel of a gun, but these trousers don't soil easily. I ripped off my shirt to go topless, gave an Argentinian two step the full works, including a slide down the bar, which knackered my knackers, but it was for the Albion so who cares. Bruno was practically moved to tears, and I swear that Len Goodman was so impressed he soiled himself. Tens ALL FACKING ROUND, a standing ovation from my team, and Nige looked at me, a broken man. He tried a Paso Doble, but his heart wasn't in it, and I spotted at least two insteps when he should have gone left right, left right. The judges didn't even have to show their numbers, he and the Palace crew walked out of TBFC, heads bowed, not even bothering to throw their flower bouquets to the waiting audience of ASBO teenagers, pensioners smelling of wee and a Japanese couple looking for Buckingham Palace.
We'd done it, 3-2, at Palace's gaff. We'd only FACKING DONE IT, Pride of the south coast, once again.
So this Saturday PUSSIES, do the business once more, or else, innit?
For those of you PUSSIES Not in the know, last season before the game at Palace saw one of the greatest Climaxes since I shot me duff over Cheryl Cole doing her debut single on X Factor. We'd been in touch with some of Palace's HARDEST before the match, not through the internet or mobile phones, never can be too sure, OB could be tracing, or PC Beard may have been tipped off, but we used saucy seaside postcards sent to my mum, and to that of Palace's Number 1 naughty boy, Nigel 'Nige' Nigelson but in a code that even the Enigma machine would not have cracked.
The meet was at their main boozer, The Bankrupt Former Chairmen (TBFC to those ITK). We used a bit of stealth to get past their lookouts, as we all went disguised as teenage mums, and therefore blended in perfectly with the locals.
It was an elite crew, myself, Big Vern, Uncle Morty, Scratchcard and Size 5, a firm so feared that the police in Brighton used to ask us to look after West Street when they went on their holidays to San Francisco.
I kicked open the doors to TBFC, strolled to the bar, pram before me, and ripped off my 10 inch hoopie earrings, pink velour tracksuit and scrunched back hair in a ponytail. There was an audible gasp from the Palace NUTTERS, who had been having a casual game of Flick The Bogey, they knew they had been outmanoeuvred, and weren't fully ready for the onslaught that was coming their way.
'Where's Nige', I drawled, he stood up from his game of dominoes, "Who'se facking asking you cannnt", he replied. " Jemima Puddleduck, Peter Rabbit, Squirrel Nutkin", I said, with a cocked eyebrow, it was the first three lines of the code, "Mrs Tiggy Winkle, Tom Kitten, Pigling Bland", he responded, I knew that it was the right response, no filth would have decoded our Beatrix Potter mug collection order, we both knew it was the top crews of both the Albion and Palace about to go toe to toe.
Nige called first, and we facked up, it was Impressions, and I had been worried about this for some time, Size 5's Norman Wisdom lacked gravitas, Big Vern's Frank Spencer had too many 'ooh Betty's, and even my Alan Whicker was missing it's usual metronomic timimg. The judges awarded the round to Palace, and fair play, one of their lads did a Larry Grayson so accurately that even I was half expecting Slack Alice to put in an appearance.
The next three games were to and fro, we managed to just win Twister, despite Uncle Morty's dodgy knee and his colostomy bag splitting open when he tried to split an orange and green circle. We then went 2-1 up on Name That Tune, mainly due to Big Vern's encyclopaedic recall of the Best of the Osmonds, which trounced Palace's attempts with The Three Degrees (still would though, but not the one on the right, always thought she had a wonky eye).
Palace came roaring back on Capital Cities, I was gobsmacked that a place where The Daily Star is considered highbrow would produce someone who knew that the capital of Mauritania was Nouakchott, although later investigation revealed that his mum had been bought from there by his old man for £30 and a pack of Capstan Full Strength.
It was 2-2, eyes narrowed, my versus Nige, and it was Strictly time. I started with a Tango, followed by a Diet Coke (Boom Boom), although my arms were all over the place, Craig Revell Hall didn't like it, the others were so so, so I only got 5, 6, 6, 6. Nige went for broke, he flashed his castanets and gave it all with his cha-cha-cha. Three sevens and an 8 meant I was looking down the barrel of a gun, but these trousers don't soil easily. I ripped off my shirt to go topless, gave an Argentinian two step the full works, including a slide down the bar, which knackered my knackers, but it was for the Albion so who cares. Bruno was practically moved to tears, and I swear that Len Goodman was so impressed he soiled himself. Tens ALL FACKING ROUND, a standing ovation from my team, and Nige looked at me, a broken man. He tried a Paso Doble, but his heart wasn't in it, and I spotted at least two insteps when he should have gone left right, left right. The judges didn't even have to show their numbers, he and the Palace crew walked out of TBFC, heads bowed, not even bothering to throw their flower bouquets to the waiting audience of ASBO teenagers, pensioners smelling of wee and a Japanese couple looking for Buckingham Palace.
We'd done it, 3-2, at Palace's gaff. We'd only FACKING DONE IT, Pride of the south coast, once again.
So this Saturday PUSSIES, do the business once more, or else, innit?
