Tales of the Unexpected

So there I was, effigy in hand, in Daniel Levy’s basement.

How did I get there? Let’s just say it involved snorkels, eye-goggles and a faeces filled sewage pipeline. Was just about worth dating the rather mature lady from the Drainage and Irrigation department to get my hands on the underground layout. Only way in now that there's improved security on the ground level. The less said about swimming in shit the better. And don’t even ask about the night in the Holiday Inn with the irrigation lady. I couldn't sit down for three days after that little exploit.

The effigy remained undamaged, wrapped in air-tight plastic. Very proud of this creation. It’s the head of a Damien Comolli. It’s not the actual head of Comolli. That would be first degree murder. Its simply a very well done effigy of the Frenchman's boat race, eyes screaming ‘no’, neck ravaged, all very arty. The plan was simplicity. Enter the Levy Mansion via the basement and place the Comolli effigy on the bed of Daniel Levy. His wife will be in the gym, while Levy has an extra hour or two, probably enjoying a lucid dream where he is revered and worshipped by all. When he awakes, he sees Comolli’s detached head and understands the message after wetting the bed. The Director of Football hierarchy does not work.

Although I did not get the go-ahead from Martin Jol directly, I know in spirit, he approves of this evasive action. Unfortunately, there was no way out of the basement and into his home. My plan was fruitless. The steel door at the top of the basement stairs appeared to be triple-locked. The basement itself looked like it had hardly been used in sometime. Darkly lit, dusty and not what I expected from a millionaire chairman. I was thinking pool table, jukebox and possibly a tv. Not here.

There was a stack of old Mayfair magazines in one corner and a few hundred VHS tapes in the other. Old toys and bikes along with countless boxes made up the rest of this mundane underbelly of Levy’s crib.

Within all the tattered boxes was a crate. Very nondescript, but its wooden exterior made it stand out from all the cardboard, making me open it. It almost called out to me. Curiosity, I suppose. I was aghast with what I found. I momentarily blacked out, managing to avoid collapsing to the ground. I could taste puke in my mouth. The crate was positively rammed with Arsenal FC memorabilia. Old programmes, magazines, mugs, posters, scarfs and dozens of replica shirts ranging all the way back to the 1970’s. It was a sea of red and white. My throat ceased, I couldn’t scream out my pain. Suddenly, breathing in the fumes of shit in the sewer was a far more pleasant alternative than casting my eyes on this hell-in-a-box.

I closed the crate shut. Then kneeled down and stuck two-fingers down my throat. Several gag throw-ups later, I wiped away the tears and stood up feeling much better, all things considering.

I’ve seen some things in my life. I remember this one time, in a pub in Chingford, this bird (Emma Jenkins was her name) was there in the tightest white all-in-one body suit you’ve ever seen. Fit as anything you would wish to break your wrist over in the comfort of your own home. Maybe it was food poisoning or maybe too much drink, but she proceeded to shit herself a brown waterfall so sick that several other people started gagging with one poor soul slipping on the crap that had now covered her surrounding area. It was horrid. She stood there panic-stricken. Much like how I felt standing in Levy’s basement.

Our chairman has this darkest of secrets hidden, lost in time, in his basement.

I decided at this point it was time to leave, with effigy in hand. I could always Parcel Force it. I did however salvage the original Chirpy mascot outfit which sat in some black bins. Although I had no use for the ball-gag, handcuffs and anal-plug that Chirpy was wearing.

As I swam my escape route through the chocolate river of waste, only one thing bounced around my head. I truly am fighting the anti-cockerel. Daniel Levy is evil in its purist form.

And now I understand everything. Its crystal clear. Unlike the shit that leaked through my goggles on the way out.

I am In The Know

So, there I am. Downstairs in the living room. Considering pouring myself a glass of port (but not doing so) and looking around for any mislaid documentation or a blackberry (no such luck). Showers running upstairs, and I can hear singing. Now, I’m no Jason Bourne or James Bond. But I have certain skills and abilities that allow me to, let’s say, find a way in when I’m uninvited. And this blog entry (devoid of any actual circumstantial facts) would be inadmissible in a court of law. Just a deluded fantasy of an obsessed fan, your honour.

But even though I spent just 5 minutes before departing into the night, I took with me two rather glorious tips that would suggest that two new signings are in the offing. On Sky+, Derby v WBA is set to be recorded. And as for the singing in the shower? Do do do…..

That’s right. There’s no need to hang around the Lodge up a tree or rely on a tea-lady that might have heard something in the corridor while taking tea and biscuits to a board meeting. No sir. This is nailed on.

Giles Barnes and Nigel Reo-Coker are done deals. Literally, from the horses mouth and his programme planner.

And if you’re curious, he has a subscription to Television X.