onionbagblog
Dirty Dozen
We are 12. And still we ride. Not always on time though. It's one of the inevitabilities of being part of 'a random gathering of self organised and independent cyclists.'
'What time does the ride start?'
'What time can you get here?'
Waiting around under the Waterloo Bridge arches on the last Friday of every month for the past twelve years is all part of the experience though. This is the Critical Mass social scene. It's a lot more fun than wasting away your money in some poncey West End 'lifestyle' bar on a Friday night. Dress policy is Come as You Are, the only cost is your time and the queues are caused by the Petrol Heads as the cyclists weave through the West End.
Critical Mass IS my lifestyle.
And so finally sometime after 7pm on Friday night, the 144th Critical Mass London started the slow pedal up towards the Imax Island. I think I have got my maths right here.
We were serenaded off by a Samba Band on bikes, as well as free sweets being handed out to celebrate the occasion. All the partying even forced a smile from of the female Bobbies on Bikes. Or maybe she had just seen the truncheon in between my legs?
Across the Ray Davies, down the Strand, we took Trafalgar and then snaked through to St James. Not a great variation on the sound system front this Friday, and I'm sure it was the first time that old school Sisters of Mercy has been heard around SW1. Hopefully the last as well.
Piccadilly saw the first bike thrusting into the air moments - the traditional Critical Mass salute for solidarity. It's the equivalent of having an increasing number of birthday candles on your cake each year, and for the twelfth anniversary celebrations, a fair number of frames were hoisted above heads in the centre of town. I made a secret wish as my Marin was lifted.
The Mass then took a mainly West End route through Soho, Charring Cross Road, Oxford Street, Marble Arch and Park Lane. A little detour to take in the American Embassy and a little paranoia from the Bobbies on Bikes who laudably blocked off the already heavily fortified building, fearing a bunch of Friday evening cyclists were about to inflict some serious damage on the Special Relationship.
We picked up the pace heading towards the Palace, and here's where I took the cue to peddle through Westminster and back to Sunny Stockwell. Just over a week late for Brenda's official 80th birthday celebrations, but I bet she enjoyed the Pistols being pumped out on her front lawn at full volume on Friday night. Gawd Bless you 'Mam, you blue blooded baby eating lizard.
In twelve months time and Critical Mass will be a teenager. Now there's a scary thought. Mood swings, debatable dress sense and minor skin complaints. And that's just the Bobbies on Bikes.
technorati: critical mass
| Saturday 29 April, 2006 |
We are 12. And still we ride. Not always on time though. It's one of the inevitabilities of being part of 'a random gathering of self organised and independent cyclists.'
'What time does the ride start?'
'What time can you get here?'
 Gawd bless you, 'Mam |
Critical Mass IS my lifestyle.
And so finally sometime after 7pm on Friday night, the 144th Critical Mass London started the slow pedal up towards the Imax Island. I think I have got my maths right here.
We were serenaded off by a Samba Band on bikes, as well as free sweets being handed out to celebrate the occasion. All the partying even forced a smile from of the female Bobbies on Bikes. Or maybe she had just seen the truncheon in between my legs?
Across the Ray Davies, down the Strand, we took Trafalgar and then snaked through to St James. Not a great variation on the sound system front this Friday, and I'm sure it was the first time that old school Sisters of Mercy has been heard around SW1. Hopefully the last as well.
Piccadilly saw the first bike thrusting into the air moments - the traditional Critical Mass salute for solidarity. It's the equivalent of having an increasing number of birthday candles on your cake each year, and for the twelfth anniversary celebrations, a fair number of frames were hoisted above heads in the centre of town. I made a secret wish as my Marin was lifted.
The Mass then took a mainly West End route through Soho, Charring Cross Road, Oxford Street, Marble Arch and Park Lane. A little detour to take in the American Embassy and a little paranoia from the Bobbies on Bikes who laudably blocked off the already heavily fortified building, fearing a bunch of Friday evening cyclists were about to inflict some serious damage on the Special Relationship.
We picked up the pace heading towards the Palace, and here's where I took the cue to peddle through Westminster and back to Sunny Stockwell. Just over a week late for Brenda's official 80th birthday celebrations, but I bet she enjoyed the Pistols being pumped out on her front lawn at full volume on Friday night. Gawd Bless you 'Mam, you blue blooded baby eating lizard.
In twelve months time and Critical Mass will be a teenager. Now there's a scary thought. Mood swings, debatable dress sense and minor skin complaints. And that's just the Bobbies on Bikes.
technorati: critical mass
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North London Knobbers Luvvies
Ed Ball
The Mill Hill Self Hate Club
'In London Fields I fell for a girl
On Primrose Hill she changed my world'
Another vanity release from Mr McGhee on the back of the Oasis millions. And what would you rather have? Mill Hill or D'You Know What I Mean?
Ed Ball IS NOT a Nu Labour knobber who has got his tongue so far up Mr Tony's chocolate starfish that it is causing serious rectal damage to our beloved leader. Ed Ball IS instead a sometime singer in The Times, Love Corporation and was once even an occasional memeber in the ranks of the much missed Boo Radleys.
He also releases solo records, sung mainly about his passion for Primrose Hill.
Mill Hill Safe Hate Club? Wouldn't you feel this way if you lived up in NW7?
This sounded particularly ace I as peddled through East Dulwich earlier today.
technorati: ed ball
| Thursday 27 April, 2006 |
Ed Ball
The Mill Hill Self Hate Club
'In London Fields I fell for a girl
On Primrose Hill she changed my world'
Another vanity release from Mr McGhee on the back of the Oasis millions. And what would you rather have? Mill Hill or D'You Know What I Mean?
Ed Ball IS NOT a Nu Labour knobber who has got his tongue so far up Mr Tony's chocolate starfish that it is causing serious rectal damage to our beloved leader. Ed Ball IS instead a sometime singer in The Times, Love Corporation and was once even an occasional memeber in the ranks of the much missed Boo Radleys.
He also releases solo records, sung mainly about his passion for Primrose Hill.
Mill Hill Safe Hate Club? Wouldn't you feel this way if you lived up in NW7?
This sounded particularly ace I as peddled through East Dulwich earlier today.
technorati: ed ball
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Tasty
Do you know the muffin man? The muffin man, the muffin man? Do you know the muffin man that lives on Drury Lane?
Yikes.
I've been working with ankle biters for too long now.
I don't actually know the muffin man, the muffin man (oh for fucks sake - shut it!), but I went looking for him last weekend in WC2. I didn't find the gentlemen who specialises in calorie busting cakes; but I did find a cunt of a cabbie (my Marin got the better of him,) some poncey Saturday IT Girl shoppers and some rather nice flowers welcoming fellow The Way We See It-ers to the West End in the spring sunshine.
Drury Lane is clearly a street that is trading on past reputation. It's certainly not trading on cakes anymore. Reputable English language schools, a stationers that looks like it only stock ink and quills and 'upmarket West End penthouse flats' that would be sold as 'ex-local authority' back in SW8.
I snapped away for twenty minutes or so, and then remembered my mantra for modern life:
Life is like a cream doughnut. Without the cream. Or the doughnut.
A metaphor that rings true of my pictures.
technorati: drury lane
| Thursday 27 April, 2006 |
Do you know the muffin man? The muffin man, the muffin man? Do you know the muffin man that lives on Drury Lane?
Yikes.
I've been working with ankle biters for too long now.
I don't actually know the muffin man, the muffin man (oh for fucks sake - shut it!), but I went looking for him last weekend in WC2. I didn't find the gentlemen who specialises in calorie busting cakes; but I did find a cunt of a cabbie (my Marin got the better of him,) some poncey Saturday IT Girl shoppers and some rather nice flowers welcoming fellow The Way We See It-ers to the West End in the spring sunshine.
Drury Lane is clearly a street that is trading on past reputation. It's certainly not trading on cakes anymore. Reputable English language schools, a stationers that looks like it only stock ink and quills and 'upmarket West End penthouse flats' that would be sold as 'ex-local authority' back in SW8.
I snapped away for twenty minutes or so, and then remembered my mantra for modern life:
Life is like a cream doughnut. Without the cream. Or the doughnut.
A metaphor that rings true of my pictures.
technorati: drury lane
| #permalink |
We Are 12
And STILL we ride...
technorati: critical mass
| Wednesday 26 April, 2006 |
And STILL we ride...
technorati: critical mass
| #permalink |
Keep on Keepin' On
Rita Dacosta
Don't Bring Me Down
A true Keepin' the Faith Wigan choon. A pair of slacks, a bit of pill popping and don't forget to put the talc down on the dancefloor.
technorati: rita dacosta
| Tuesday 25 April, 2006 |
Rita Dacosta
Don't Bring Me Down
A true Keepin' the Faith Wigan choon. A pair of slacks, a bit of pill popping and don't forget to put the talc down on the dancefloor.
technorati: rita dacosta
| #permalink |
Pasta and Piss
What is a man without a bathroom or a kitchen? A smelly and slightly undernourished bag of bones of a blogger. That's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight, losing my personal hygiene and five portions of fruit & veg a day right now.
I have a bedroom; two in fact. Six (!) if you count the (almost bought) onionbagblog HQ II. All I need now is a wife for each boudoir.
But no bloody bathroom or kitchen at the moment.
The builders are in at obb HQ I. Not a menopausal metaphor, but the builders that rip out your bathroom and kitchen, leaving you with nothing but knob cheese. I could always become pragmatic and start 'recycling' my own mouldy cheddar. Close your eyes and actually it doesn't taste that bad. Just ask any of my previous six wives.
And so my days have a new routine to them right now. As soon as the school bell goes (and that's not a moment too soon) and I'm on my bike off to Brixton Rec. Thirty lengths in the kiddie piss pool and the fromage frais is long forgotten.
Now I need some noodles. Speedy Noodles is the kind of name that a man with no kitchen can take an instant liking to. You pay your three quid and hey presto, some over-cooked pieces of pasta are placed right under your nose.
But what goes up, must come down and bugger - no bathroom = no bloody bog. And so Speedy Noodles has the sub-title of Speedy Shitter as well. It's a little cramp room in the back, and I was actually shitting myself in there late Wednesday afternoon with my cut off combats around my ankles and some SW9 locals wanting to use the solitary cubicle for something which I don't think involved pushing out the pasta.
I returned clean and full of carbs back to obb HQ I. And what 'work' was there to report from the builders on the bathroom and kitchen front? Fuck all to be honest. Not their fault, but some piss poor communication with the bathroom delivery geezers who forgot to ring the doorbell for an 8am delivery this morning.
Never mind. More kiddie piss and pasta tomorrow it is then.
technorati: up shit creek
| Tuesday 25 April, 2006 |
What is a man without a bathroom or a kitchen? A smelly and slightly undernourished bag of bones of a blogger. That's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight, losing my personal hygiene and five portions of fruit & veg a day right now.
Speedy Noodles = Speedy Shitter |
But no bloody bathroom or kitchen at the moment.
The builders are in at obb HQ I. Not a menopausal metaphor, but the builders that rip out your bathroom and kitchen, leaving you with nothing but knob cheese. I could always become pragmatic and start 'recycling' my own mouldy cheddar. Close your eyes and actually it doesn't taste that bad. Just ask any of my previous six wives.
And so my days have a new routine to them right now. As soon as the school bell goes (and that's not a moment too soon) and I'm on my bike off to Brixton Rec. Thirty lengths in the kiddie piss pool and the fromage frais is long forgotten.
Now I need some noodles. Speedy Noodles is the kind of name that a man with no kitchen can take an instant liking to. You pay your three quid and hey presto, some over-cooked pieces of pasta are placed right under your nose.
But what goes up, must come down and bugger - no bathroom = no bloody bog. And so Speedy Noodles has the sub-title of Speedy Shitter as well. It's a little cramp room in the back, and I was actually shitting myself in there late Wednesday afternoon with my cut off combats around my ankles and some SW9 locals wanting to use the solitary cubicle for something which I don't think involved pushing out the pasta.
I returned clean and full of carbs back to obb HQ I. And what 'work' was there to report from the builders on the bathroom and kitchen front? Fuck all to be honest. Not their fault, but some piss poor communication with the bathroom delivery geezers who forgot to ring the doorbell for an 8am delivery this morning.
Never mind. More kiddie piss and pasta tomorrow it is then.
technorati: up shit creek
| #permalink |
Tea for One
A spare half hour to kill on Saturday and I was stuck in South East London. St George had slayed his SE16 dragon, and Dulwich would later have a date with destiny in front of the Old Bill.
What would it be?
The Asda on the Old Kent Road for a pair of three pound jeans? Sod that. I've more or less bought up the entire ebay collection of clothes (that contain the search parameters of Weller + Mod + Cool + As + Fuck + Even + Though + Mrs + Onionbagblogger + Pisses + Herself + Whenever + A + New + Package + Arrives.)
Keep on Keppin' on and all that.
How about East Street Market to pick up a pair of cheapo shades as we head towards the summer months? Runs the risk of bumping into the kids from school though.
Or perhaps Beautiful Burgess Park, the scene of my lost lunchtimes during the week after my 'near miss incident' has seen me banished from the inner sanctum of the school staffroom?
Burgess can wait. This was the weekend and I needed a change of scenery. And so the annual Chumleigh Gardens visit was brought forward a few months. Spring was officially in full bloom in South East London and there's nowhere more lovely than sitting in the sun in Chumleigh with a pot of PG Tips at your disposal.
My Chumleigh visit last year was on July 20th. A pleasant enough afternoon experience, but nothing out of the ordinary. The date sticks though. I had a lost two hours away from school soaking up the sun in those innocent pre-PYT days. It was all so simpler last summer and at the time I really couldn't think of anywhere else I'd rather have been.
But twenty four hours later and back at base, Sunny Stockwell had changed forever.
Sitting back with my pot of PG Tips on Saturday and it could have been the same scene from almost a year ago. Chumleigh was in full bloom and the blue sky backdrop had me reaching for the seven inch super zoom. The Monday - Friday woes of that place down the road were even momentarily forgotten about.
But Sunny Stockwell has changed. People have changed.
For half an hour on Saturday afternoon though, all was well in South East London.
It didn't last long. Monday morning saw to that.
technorati: chumleigh gardens
| Monday 24 April, 2006 |
A spare half hour to kill on Saturday and I was stuck in South East London. St George had slayed his SE16 dragon, and Dulwich would later have a date with destiny in front of the Old Bill.
What would it be?
People change |
Keep on Keppin' on and all that.
How about East Street Market to pick up a pair of cheapo shades as we head towards the summer months? Runs the risk of bumping into the kids from school though.
Or perhaps Beautiful Burgess Park, the scene of my lost lunchtimes during the week after my 'near miss incident' has seen me banished from the inner sanctum of the school staffroom?
Burgess can wait. This was the weekend and I needed a change of scenery. And so the annual Chumleigh Gardens visit was brought forward a few months. Spring was officially in full bloom in South East London and there's nowhere more lovely than sitting in the sun in Chumleigh with a pot of PG Tips at your disposal.
My Chumleigh visit last year was on July 20th. A pleasant enough afternoon experience, but nothing out of the ordinary. The date sticks though. I had a lost two hours away from school soaking up the sun in those innocent pre-PYT days. It was all so simpler last summer and at the time I really couldn't think of anywhere else I'd rather have been.
But twenty four hours later and back at base, Sunny Stockwell had changed forever.
Sitting back with my pot of PG Tips on Saturday and it could have been the same scene from almost a year ago. Chumleigh was in full bloom and the blue sky backdrop had me reaching for the seven inch super zoom. The Monday - Friday woes of that place down the road were even momentarily forgotten about.
But Sunny Stockwell has changed. People have changed.
For half an hour on Saturday afternoon though, all was well in South East London.
It didn't last long. Monday morning saw to that.
technorati: chumleigh gardens
| #permalink |
Naughty But Nice
Mike Oldfield
Moonlight Shadow
'Four AM in the morning,
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.'
I think this is known as a Guilty Pleasure.
My Single of the Year (in 1984...)
technorati: mike oldfield
| Sunday 23 April, 2006 |
Mike Oldfield
Moonlight Shadow
'Four AM in the morning,
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.'
I think this is known as a Guilty Pleasure.
My Single of the Year (in 1984...)
technorati: mike oldfield
| #permalink |
SE16 Slaughter
A Saturday afternoon spent in South London with some very likable nutters. No, not down at Dulwich - that came later on in the day. From the people that brought you the utterly bonkers Green Man of Bankside, Saturday saw Saint George ride into, um, Bermondsey. And bloody brilliant he was too.
Two afternoon performances of the dragon being slayed in SE16 to celebrate England's patron Saint. I arrived just in time for the 1:30 slaughter. I'm usually fine finding my way along the Old Kent Road, but I took a slight detour on Saturday. Not intentional but a few missed turns later led me cycling as far South East as New Cross.
Whoops.
A bit of back peddling along the Bermondsey back streets and the 'Wall was in my radar. I'd wager a bit of slaughtering was also in store for the Lions later on in the afternoon. In a football capacity, of course.
Hey nonny nonny SE16 style shouldn't work. The artisans of Bankside venturing into Bermondsey is not something that you'd find the RSC Company attempting. But the Bard and Jacobean theatre in general is all about entertainment for the masses. Sod your sixty quid ticket prices for some poncey performance. What you need is a free event in a local community garden. The Lions Part pitched their Saint George celebrations perfectly and were rewarded with a responsive crowd.
And there's no way of dancing around the subject of the ethnic make up of the crowd either. Yes, SE16 has had problems in the past; solid, white working class territory and a hunting ground for the BNP bigots. A Saint George celebration around these parts has the potential to rally around a cause that the concept of 'Englishness' in twenty first Century London doesn't recognise or tolerate.
But put aside your prejudices. Saint George face painting was in evidence, and it looked mighty fine on the different colours of skin in the crowd. There was a genuine local community feel in an area that is often portrayed as not having a community.
There was even some added dialogue from one corner of the crowd:
'Fuck - I aint got my other fucking mobile,' probably wasn't scripted, but at least it made a Crusader with dodgy Turkish origins relevant in Mr Tony's Britain.
Dragon defeated, SE16's Saint George then had to contend with a little local difficulty. His shield was half-inched ahead of the 3.00 show. No worries. It gave our hero the chance to 'engage with his audience.'
Saintly.
technorati: saint george
| Sunday 23 April, 2006 |
A Saturday afternoon spent in South London with some very likable nutters. No, not down at Dulwich - that came later on in the day. From the people that brought you the utterly bonkers Green Man of Bankside, Saturday saw Saint George ride into, um, Bermondsey. And bloody brilliant he was too.
Shakespeare in SE16 shouldn't work |
Whoops.
A bit of back peddling along the Bermondsey back streets and the 'Wall was in my radar. I'd wager a bit of slaughtering was also in store for the Lions later on in the afternoon. In a football capacity, of course.
Hey nonny nonny SE16 style shouldn't work. The artisans of Bankside venturing into Bermondsey is not something that you'd find the RSC Company attempting. But the Bard and Jacobean theatre in general is all about entertainment for the masses. Sod your sixty quid ticket prices for some poncey performance. What you need is a free event in a local community garden. The Lions Part pitched their Saint George celebrations perfectly and were rewarded with a responsive crowd.
And there's no way of dancing around the subject of the ethnic make up of the crowd either. Yes, SE16 has had problems in the past; solid, white working class territory and a hunting ground for the BNP bigots. A Saint George celebration around these parts has the potential to rally around a cause that the concept of 'Englishness' in twenty first Century London doesn't recognise or tolerate.
But put aside your prejudices. Saint George face painting was in evidence, and it looked mighty fine on the different colours of skin in the crowd. There was a genuine local community feel in an area that is often portrayed as not having a community.
There was even some added dialogue from one corner of the crowd:
'Fuck - I aint got my other fucking mobile,' probably wasn't scripted, but at least it made a Crusader with dodgy Turkish origins relevant in Mr Tony's Britain.
Dragon defeated, SE16's Saint George then had to contend with a little local difficulty. His shield was half-inched ahead of the 3.00 show. No worries. It gave our hero the chance to 'engage with his audience.'
Saintly.
technorati: saint george
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 1Met Not Police 2, 22/04/06
I once Fought the Law, and whadya know - the Law Won. It was a strange incident, caught carrying an over-sized bag in the early hours around the backstreets of Crappy Colchester.
Call the cops.
I was pulled over by PC Plod who asked me to open up the over-sized bag. I refused, forcing Plod to look at the loot himself. It was a bag stuffed full of mrs onionbagblogger's dirty smalls and I was on the way back to the student onionbagblog HQ having dirtied mrs obb's smalls some hours earlier.
It's a dirty job... boom boom. I thought it only fair to wash them myself; he who smelt it, dealt it, etc.
PC Plod didn't see the funny side of my 'you're pants' jibe and cautioned me. The bastard.
And so what's all this got to do with Dulwich? Apart from mrs obb's pink 'n blue pantie peccadillo (actually, it's mine) there's also the theme of the Old Bill coming to Champion Hill and washing their dirty linen in public.
Sir Ian Blair (now there's a face you can trust) likes to big up the Met Police as a cohesive unit. He obviously hasn't seen his first XI in action lately. The halftime investigation in the away dressing room wasn't quite on the same scale as the de Menezes Inquiry, but I think the official line was 'an internal difference of opinion on the pitch.'
'Get in the back of the van!' barked the manager of the Boys in Blue to his team of truncheon carriers at the break after a series of missed chances. Best not to mention any de Menezes sharp shooting jokes. The long arm of the law was 2-1 up at the time as well. What are they all on? Performance related pay? Or perhaps they *whisper* aren't proper Plods?
It wasn't a good start some 45 minutes earlier. The final home game of the season and I arrived in SE22 on time for once. Two minutes later and I wished I hadn't with the Hamlet 1-0 down. Dulwich plodded on and put one past Plod eleven minutes later.
'That was extremely naive,' stated a blazer wearing Met boy in a slightly threatening tone as the ball hit the back of the net. I managed to keep my 'you're pants' joke to myself this time. Instead I blocked the blazer boy's view as the Met Police scored a second and Dulwich were Caught by the Fuzz.
But there was no laughing policemen to be found at Champion Hill on Saturday (there wasn't actually any policemen to be found either, but that's a different matter.)
Dulwich came out for the second half with recent signing Jani Seitsonen still in-between the sticks. Nice fella and all that but it was a bit of a shame seeing as though Paul Seuke was scheduled to equal a fifty year-old club record of having played every game in the season. A double whammy in that the previous pink 'blue old boy ever present was sitting in the stand to watch history repeating itself.
A spot of police brutality was required to give Seuke the chance to wear the gloves. Failing that then a bomber jacket and a back pack attached to Seitsonen should do the job.
But there was to be no fit up by the Fuzz. The Dulwich frontline couldn't find a way past the Boys in Blue who stood their ground. Seuke did come on a sub in the final minute as an outfield player. The police equivalent of playing out of your depth is probably one of those Community Support Officers.
2-1 to the Plod it finished. I shall miss Dulwich over the summer months. I could always try and get arrested at the cricket.
technorati: dulwich hamlet
| Saturday 23 April, 2006 |
Dulwich Hamlet 1
I once Fought the Law, and whadya know - the Law Won. It was a strange incident, caught carrying an over-sized bag in the early hours around the backstreets of Crappy Colchester.
Call the cops.
Get in the back of the van! |
It's a dirty job... boom boom. I thought it only fair to wash them myself; he who smelt it, dealt it, etc.
PC Plod didn't see the funny side of my 'you're pants' jibe and cautioned me. The bastard.
And so what's all this got to do with Dulwich? Apart from mrs obb's pink 'n blue pantie peccadillo (actually, it's mine) there's also the theme of the Old Bill coming to Champion Hill and washing their dirty linen in public.
Sir Ian Blair (now there's a face you can trust) likes to big up the Met Police as a cohesive unit. He obviously hasn't seen his first XI in action lately. The halftime investigation in the away dressing room wasn't quite on the same scale as the de Menezes Inquiry, but I think the official line was 'an internal difference of opinion on the pitch.'
'Get in the back of the van!' barked the manager of the Boys in Blue to his team of truncheon carriers at the break after a series of missed chances. Best not to mention any de Menezes sharp shooting jokes. The long arm of the law was 2-1 up at the time as well. What are they all on? Performance related pay? Or perhaps they *whisper* aren't proper Plods?
It wasn't a good start some 45 minutes earlier. The final home game of the season and I arrived in SE22 on time for once. Two minutes later and I wished I hadn't with the Hamlet 1-0 down. Dulwich plodded on and put one past Plod eleven minutes later.
'That was extremely naive,' stated a blazer wearing Met boy in a slightly threatening tone as the ball hit the back of the net. I managed to keep my 'you're pants' joke to myself this time. Instead I blocked the blazer boy's view as the Met Police scored a second and Dulwich were Caught by the Fuzz.
But there was no laughing policemen to be found at Champion Hill on Saturday (there wasn't actually any policemen to be found either, but that's a different matter.)
Dulwich came out for the second half with recent signing Jani Seitsonen still in-between the sticks. Nice fella and all that but it was a bit of a shame seeing as though Paul Seuke was scheduled to equal a fifty year-old club record of having played every game in the season. A double whammy in that the previous pink 'blue old boy ever present was sitting in the stand to watch history repeating itself.
A spot of police brutality was required to give Seuke the chance to wear the gloves. Failing that then a bomber jacket and a back pack attached to Seitsonen should do the job.
But there was to be no fit up by the Fuzz. The Dulwich frontline couldn't find a way past the Boys in Blue who stood their ground. Seuke did come on a sub in the final minute as an outfield player. The police equivalent of playing out of your depth is probably one of those Community Support Officers.
2-1 to the Plod it finished. I shall miss Dulwich over the summer months. I could always try and get arrested at the cricket.
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technorati: dulwich hamlet
| #permalink |
