FinchleyEagle
New member
- Nov 19, 2012
- 232
Listen up you slaaaags. There’s been too much whining, wimpering and defeatism from you PUSSIES on here, it’s time for the HPAC to remind you what the Albion v Palace is all abaht.
When we played Palace at Selhurst last time, a lot of the old lags came out of retirement. Scratchcard, Big Vern, Longpockets (still hasn’t bought a round since 1976) and Size Five were all rounded up. The night before the match we went mental in terms of preparation, made sure we had plenty of pre-fight calories with a few Vesta chicken chow meins with rice, and had an all night ITV4 marathon, reminding ourselves of the proper toe to toe techniques from The Sweeney, Britain’s Hardest Ventriloquist with Ross Kemp, The Professionals, (Gordon Jackson was, is and always will be the guv’nor) & of course…..Upstairs, Downstairs.
On the Saturday morning we were looking like catwalk models from Milan in our Tacchini tracksuit tops, Brutus Gold flares and 16 hole Docs. You could see gussets moistening from our birds (Shirley, Shirley, Shirley, Shirley and Brian (don’t ask)) as we resembled a slightly older and fatter version of One Direction getting into the car.
Because we were heading up to their gaff, Big Vern had even blacked out the windows of his Austin Allegro with pages from The Daily Star, Size Five was freaking out after mixing TWO sherbert fountains with a can of Tizer, and Longpockets was letting rip some daisycutters that meant we had to have the windows open at times to prevent ourselves from passing out with the fumes.
We had had communication with Palace’s Top Boy, Danny Diarrhoea, and they knew we were coming to town, with the aim of taking their crown, at their HQ pub, The Penny in the Pound.
He’d asked us not to turn up too early, as some civilians were having Croydon’s Glamourous Granny competition that morning in the boozer, and to be fair, there were some reasonably good 28 year old birds there, probably attracted by the first prize of 200 Capstan Full Strength, a labia piercing and five free sessions at Simon Jordan’s Tanning Salon (tanning colour options include Burnt Orange, Chernobyl Afterburn and Tango Sheepdip). Being old school nutters we obliged, remembering the mantra, (we don’t trouble no scarfers, no kids, no women, no pensioners) we said we’d turn up at 11.30 for some Top Boy action.
There were no problems on the M23 or A23, so we were early in their neck of the woods, so went into a newsagent in Norbury for some provisions. This gave Longpockets a few problems, as he’d just come out of The Priory having succumbed to a Maltesers addiction in 2002, and saw a couple of family sized bags dangling before him, tempting him like a boy bands member’s ballsac in front of Katie Price. We could tell we were in Palace country, as the only reading material in the newsagent were copies of What Caravan and Tyre Burning Monthly.
We walked into The Penny in the Pound on the dot of 11.30, narrowly avoiding the winner of the Glamourous Granny compo (whose full time job is that of a Susan Boyle lookalike, who charges for opening poundshops, pawnshops and clap clinics locally) celebrating her win by noshing off the barman for a free Bacardi Breezer.
Danny’s eyes met mine, “Oi Oi” he said, “Oi, Oi” I replied. Heads were nodded, eyes narrowed, and both sets of geezers knew that this was going to make World War Two look as soft as Jimmy Krankie’s erection.
Palace were at home and had first call, we’d heard that they were going to go for either the Croydon version of Monopoly (Park Lane & Mayfair replaced by Bargain Booze and Lidl on Norbury High Street) or Risk (the Selhurst version in which you provide Palace with some goods, and see how much they pay you for them when they go into admin).
Instead however, they called our bluff and went for Jenga instead. We were toast as Size Five was still a bit wobbly following his Sherbert Fountain meltdown, and Palace’s geezer, Nigel Nigelson (although those ITK call him Nige), had a hand as firm as my chopper when I’m cracking one off watching Penelope Keith in The Good Life (1pm on Dave every Tuesday & Thursday for anyone interested).
One down away from home, it wasn’t looking good, but we were feeling confident. We’d nominated Longpockets, and he had practising Cluedo for weeks. He had done his research and knew that even playing Palace’s version of the game he would be able to identify the culprit, and fifteen minutes later, had identified Asbo Albert, with the Molotov cocktail, in the burnt out JD Sports Shop, as the culprit.
One one, and all to play for. It was leader v leader, Danny Diarrhoea versus myself, and no one was taking prisoners. Danny had a quick trip to the khazi, and you could hear his Brownian motion from the bar itself.
I didn’t know what to expect, but facking hell, he’d only gone modern, and brought out a Nintendo 64 with Mario Kart for the decider, we agreed best of three races. First round, and he mullered me, he chose Bowser, and I made the mistake of going for Pretty Pink Fairy (regards BTW PPF), who had fast acceleration but lacked stamina (his wife, Shirley, says the same about him in the bedroom department). He won the race and I was fourth. Second round I gambled, chose Luigi against his Toad, and dropped two brown shells on the final lap that caused him to crash into another kart, as well as mildly soil himself.
Hands were sweaty, there was silence in the pub, even the OB who were nervously in the vans outside asked if they could watch respectfully, and all eyes were on the best workingTV in Croydon (a Beko 24 inch no less), as we chose our final vehicles. I went for an all rounder, Mario, Danny smirked at me. The utter cannt had only had the N64 chipped, and had had Kong’s vehicle modified into the Palace colours to rub my nose in it.
He started well, I was dodging bananas like bullets from the back of his motor, but he had a good lead over me. I thought he was a goner, but Danny was too cocky. Aat the start of the last lap, he pulled his motor into the pit stop area, thinking he needed a refuel.Whoever had modified the game had made it too realistic and when the pit crew saw he was from Croydon they hitched a caravan onto the back of his racer. That slowed him down a bit, and when one of the wheels fell off the caravan half a lap later I went past him and powered to the finish line.
Our team went mental, Palace were as crestfallen as when I pulled that Thai bird in Amsterdam after twelve pints and found out ‘she’ was packing a pecker the following morning. Victory was ours, and we left the boozer with heads held high.
So tomorrow morning, sing your hearts out for the lads, and remember, even if FFS does the dirty on us, the HPAC will have been cleaning the streets of the opposition in ways that would even make Jean Claude Van Damme blush.
God bless the Queen Mum and Cass Pennant
Regards
LP
genius
