Moonface Stole My Spleen

Not much to report at present from either the Meat Clinic or Adams Park. The former is riddled with horseflies and dung, while the latter is in a rancid lull now the "glamour friendlies" are over and the club is facing fixtures against sides with the pedigree of a raped dog.

Still, it seems that Wycombe powerbroker Lionel Shark has been flashing his ill gotten gains with ostentatious fundays for the inbred and permanently confused football club staff. Funfairs on the Desso pitch and a ride the donkey competition that has caused long-lasting damage to a member of the Beeks family is all very well and good but shouldn't Lionel be saving his money for Lucky John's inevitable payoff in November?

That's right, if Gorman lasts until the eleventh month it will be a miracle. He's got doom under his fingernails and no amount of preening and 'tache twirling will change it. Get prepared for the mother of all disappointments. Even worse than Lee Turnbull. Lucky John has morphed into Arrogant John in recent days anyway, oozing smarm as he told the press that Wycombe were "too good for this league". Must have done some hard week in recent weeks as Wycombe ended the season spluttering like a fat kid on the parallel bars. "Must-Win!" games came and went with the monotony of a webhound press release as the Drone Army contorted themselves in an attempt to support their doomed Scotch hero. They'll have to switch sides soon as Bitter John is driven at speed out of the car park with a baying hate mob howling at his botoxed face. The storm clouds are gathering.

Talking of looking to the near feature, SMBU's annual season preview will be available to read some time this week and it promises to be the most glamourous yet, with some guest letters from a very special guest alphabet.

"Dum-dum bullets in the post"

Golden Brown

Tonight a hopefully healthy (in terms of attendance size, not their burping arteries) crowd will smear their way into Adams Park and pay tribute to arguably the greatest Wycombe player of the football league era. The likes of Carroll, Ryan and Cousins were all converted from non-league units into pro-machines, but Brown was brought in by Martin O'Neill to do a job, and he has been here virtually ever since.

He is the last link to the grease-petalled days of 1994 and tonight he will be honoured.

Everyone will have their own favourite memories but here is the official Meat Clinic top three:

3) That goal at Notts County in 1997 and the subsequent charge down the pitch to celebrate with the Drone Army. "You've come north to watch me score," Brown opined, "so I'll run south to celebrate, even with the fat kids in nylon." Top of the pops.

2) Scoring at Preston in the following season and celebrating by saluting the empty building site behind the goal. Not only did it confuse the northern apes but it was also a prophetic intellectual discourse on the future actions of a certain Alan Parry in that yet-to-be-built stand. "You can't take beer into the seats!" Brown seemed to be saying. The travelling Chairboys roared their approval.

1) Cupping his ear to the baying Northampton idiots every time they booed him at their shopping complex council stadium. "I can hear you," Brown was saying, "I can hear you wasting your wages at TGI Fridays and that oversized Burger King. Shape up or ship out!"

Thankyou Brownie, you're a dreamboat.

Sister I'm A Poet

Underneath a jetting, pulsing arc of juddering semen, Chelsea played Wycombe in a friendly last night. Judging by the slavish coverage, you'd think that a cure for AIDS had been found in the Vere Suite. Wave after wave of Wycombe officials sank to their knees and praised the Lord God on high that mighty Chelsea had deigned to visit tiny, haemorrhaging Wycombe in their hovel stadium.

Things reached a peak when nightclub terror John Terry paid tribute to the pitch. A throwaway comment from a man aging more quickly than Michael Jackson is suddenly elevated to the level of a speech by Martin Luther King.

This idiocy has to stop. It's embarrassing.

Loyal fans may remember the tour of Scotland a few years back. The Dumbarton match saw similar levels of sycophancy, with the Scotch park side creaming themselves at the thought of a giant of English football on their reeking turf.

Pre-season friendlies are about scooping in some bonus cash and injuring your best players. Nothing more, nothing less. Chelsea may want to come back next season but this should only happen if there's a press embargo. A repeat of yesterday would be more unpalatable than a meat pie from Butter Parsons.

Waiting For The Great Leap Forwards

The Meat Clinic has been enjoying a scheduled shutdown period over the last 12 days, and anyone who claims that this happens every year when the Buckinghamshire disease control unit have their annual trip to Brill Hill is a liar and deluded.

Nonetheless, there's been much happening in the gruesome world of Wycombe Wanderers so here's a generic roundup.

Ibiza: The thought of Honest John, MonkeyMan Beeks and Lord Shovel of Parry Heights parading around the gleaming island was a startling one, made all the more interesting by the knowledge that one in three Britons visiting the island take pills more than five days a week. Which one of the happy trio enjoyed themselves the most? Considering the side effects of the killer love drug are rabid optimism, rapid eye movement and unpleasant gurning, will we ever be able to tell? The team won a pot, though, so that should keep the drone army quiet for a while.

Chelsea: The slavish way the club have bent over to cater to every request from the Premiership blood money circus is predictably nauseating. The wailing plea to fans to get to the ground in plenty of time because ChelseaTV cannot wait for rural proles is faintly ridiculous. The television station has as many viewers as the Meat Clinic has vegetarian recipe books. The Wycombe Founders Trust leader has been bent over double in recent days, trying to maintain the impossible illusion of being a man of the people and keeping his powerful chums sweet. Here's a tip: it's hard to speak for the fans when you've got a director's engorged penis in your mouth.


Fashion Show: Rather than introduce Wycombe's new kit in an apt manner (piling the shirts in a huge pile while tramps piss on them is the right level), the club decided to have a frankly disturbing fashion show. This mainly allowed middle-aged men to leer at young blonde girls and thus save their fat wives from another soulless rutting later that evening. As we lurch fowards into the 21st century, is it not sad that WWFC are splashing around in a confused sexist puddle, their numb fingers twitching with unrequited desire? Apart from anything else, dressing models in nylon football shirts is like having a wank into the Bayeux Tapestry, something that might appeal to the new broom at Adams Park.

Somebody press the green button.

Sorrow Will Come In The End

The staggering news that dog-haired Northampton reject Chris Carruthers has turned his scaly back on Wycombe and joined Bristol Rovers is something that Wycombe fans will have to learn to deal with.

And they will.

Chris follows in a sickening line of ex-Northampton lefties to spurn Wycombe for the slave city of Bristol, and just like Mickey "Contract" Bell, Carruthers will find his career in tatters after being drawn to the seedy docking district of that infernal western metropolis.

Carruthers could have spent his days strolling in the Chiltern uplands, picking wild flowers and shooting down red kites. (FYI the Meat Clinic is now selling a red kite ragu for £8.99) Instead he will spend his days living on a crumbling council estate surrounded by people who talk as if as if an angry giraffe has defecated in their mouths. The lonely sight of Ian Atkins masturbating slowly over some shattered breeze blocks will be cold comfort to Carruthers as he sinks into depravity and gloom.

Honest John's revolution at Wycombe may not be the best but a half-eaten steak pie is better than a shit sandwich.

All we can hope is that Carruthers primes his veins, shoots up some bent brown and dies, shivering amongst the decaying corpses of his new neighbours.