Judd Street Gentleman’s Weekly Review


ew swantonWhat-ho, chaps! The editor has petitioned one to submit an occasional exposition on the enterprise of our esteemed Eleven and the general state of the nation, as it were. To this one has solemnly agreed, for a small honorarium and free bubbly at the club bar, seeing as one is now unemployed following one’s recent and undeserved dismissal as Mister Farage’s political mentor. Top hole! Or to utilize the modern vernacular – insert oneself!

Pre-season exercise for the Tigers has been progressing auspiciously at the Home of Cricket, with all members correctly not abstaining from smoking, imbibing and generally overindulging, contra to this modern mantra put about by woolly-minded liberals like Mister Churchill and the Welsh goat.

However, some disquieting intelligence has come to the notice of yours truly concerning two of our esteemed members – the Reverend Stewart and Mister Phileas Hillbilly – apostles of an Association Football team known as FC Chelsea (2003) – a recently constituted troupe commissioned and financed by plundered petrochemical wealth. It is reported that our fellows may have been involved in, or witness to, some revolting unpleasantness during their club’s recent sojourn to our allies in the French capitol. This gang of ruffians purport to be the sporting wing of Mister Mosley’s National Union of Fascists, colloquially known as the ‘Blueshirts’, who seemingly terrorised the local inhabitants with a profusion of marching and saluting in reverence to that frightful bounder Herr Hitler!

Thankfully, I am reliably informed that neither the Reverend – a reformed character following his many years in the wilderness – nor his erstwhile colleague were party to such disgraceful offensiveness, but nonetheless this may have severe implications for the Entente Cordiale next time we are required to square up to the Hun. Damn bad show, if you want to know!

Of equal disturbance, I understand more of our members are also devotees of another team – Woolwich Wanderers – who, though lacking any success on the field of play, are known to frequently indulge themselves in the ritual abuse of their secretary-manager – a foreign chappie by the name of Mnsr. Wonger – on pre-arranged excursions from their base in Plumstead to venues in the north of England and other austere locations, where they regale in drunken, loutish comportment, including launching fireworks onto the playing area with gunpowder purloined from the munitions factory in which many of these larrikins are reputedly employed!

Bearing in mind that our club is shortly to undergo our own expedition to Portugal, a kingdom that – though never part of our British Empire – is notwithstanding our oldest ally dating to the days when we brought the Corsican bandit to book, so it is hoped that our chaps will not misbehave in the aforementioned fashion and refrain from dishonouring the good name of old England.

On the professional front the season, somewhat unseasonably, is under way, following the country’s opprobrious abasement by the convicts during the winter. Worst still, our colleagues from Lord’s are already one down after their colours were lowered by the oiks from the seaside. This would not occur, one advocates, should the team not be over constituted by Johnny Foreigner (colonials, bogtrotters and the like), but should instead engage more undergraduates and gentleman amateurs, though one was mildly amused to see our opulent rivals from the gasworks humbled by the sheep minders during the same round of fixtures!

Toodle pip!
More soon


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