Feeling Gravity's Pull

It was a tough night for Principled John as he saw his dreams of a moustachioed nation shattered in the second half as Aston Villa ran riot to a monstrous extent, reacting as if Rodney King had been beaten to death outside the Vere Suite by the WWST.

Seven Villa goals in the second half gave the game a gloss so thick for the midlanders that it could have resisted the payload of Enola Gay. Meat Clinic spies located at deep locations inside the ground report that Honest John made sure that his bloodied troops stayed true to their principles even as the ceiling fell in on their skulls.

The most important legacy from last night's game is that it has split the supporters into two ideologically fundamental camps.

Camp 7: Purists, artistes and showmen. They are enjoying the romp and pomp, the slick moves and Gorman's rare Detroit groove. Last night was a heroic loss, a charge of the light brigade into the Hughenden Valley. Fireworks light their dreams, Bonfire Night is their Easter Sunday.

Camp 66: Gripe-water enthusiasts. These stern folk found last night torture, each Villa goal akin to a Serbian hitman breaking into their house punching their wife. Proud John is a villain on a par with Norris McWhirter and the sooner he is incarcerated in Long Crendon prison the better.


Now the Meat Clinic has always been above such petty disputes, seeing as we are the ideological enemies of the pathetic Drone Army and their curious ways. Nevertheless, Camp 7 seems to be the home for us for the near future. The world of football is awash with grey at the present and a moribund functionality that makes new-born children staple their own eyelids shut.

Twinkling John may be more flawed than Wellington but he is committed to going down with his troops, firing the cannons of beauty as all aorund cling to their lazily bobbing dour dinghys. We will face the future with salt water in mouths but with our joyous hearts bursting. When we go, we're going the Viking way.

Push me out to sea, push me out to sea.

Oddfellows Local 151

Honest John can look back on this weekend's work with a wry smile and a faint, cloying hint of lavender in his spruce moustache. A 1-0 win against Barnet leaves Wycombe as the only unbeaten team in the Football League, which, however way you spin it, is quite good as the leaves turn a paler shade of brown and Wigs Malone applies his winter makeup.

The fact that Wycombe have only now managed to win as many games as Barnet themselves (who are pie-eyed in 15th) means that the anti-doom mongers have no right to be ironing their Champions By Christmas vests just yet.

But the team is keeping the crowd entertained, and that if keeps them out of Masonic sex-dens for just two hours, then some good will come of it. Football in general, however, has never looked so uninspiring, with teams racing each other to 0-0 draws and ticket prices rising like the cost of mustard in Weimar Germany. Something deep in the evil commercial heart of the game has broken and there is moral blood oozing out of the eyelids of the faithful.

When even Stone Cole Mark Austin resigns from QPR you know something is seriously wrong.

In the light of this decay and decline, perhaps Smooth John is to be praised for his reeling love affair with the beautiful game. Like a piper playing on through the rubble of Stalingrad, he hasn't let go of his muse, and for this he deserves a longing hug, a turbulent kiss.


"That's the BUPA form"

Roger And The Johnsons

The sight of Lulu Sanchez dancing a foul jig on the UDA-pitch on Wednesday night was one of horror to the Meat Clinic. This chancer has made his career on big entrances and dramatic scenes, followed by a decline on a par with Karen Carpenter.

He'll be feted by the press until he sneers once too often and abuses the loyal(ist) fans at Windsor Park and ends up wearing his knee-caps as decoration. When that day comes, be assured that there will be free meat to all our customers.

On the subject of managers, it appears that Timber Tone has launched into a generic attack on Camp John this week. Justified? You can judge for yourself here.

"Bonus scheme for toddlers"

Talk About The Passion

With the vile Drone Army in pieces over the Nathan Tyson transfer mayhem, the old questions about footballers' "passion for the club" have arisen. Here at the Meat Clinic we decided that it was time to raid the Cutlet Vault and bring out an oily sailor classic from the Gasroom. The stylish SMBU co-founder came up with a definitive guide to how players should act that was in no-way interpreted wrongly by the idiotic seething public.


1) The manager should never be sat down on the bench, instead he should pace around his technical area, shouting, swearing (especially the phrase "let's have some FUCKING EFFORT") and gesturing at the ref

2) Players should argue with the ref at all times as this demonstrates they CARE about the team and want to WIN at ALL COSTS

3) Players must KISS THE BADGE when they score as this means they have PASSION for the club and that it is more than just a job to them

4) If there is a fight then players must STEAM IN and risk a red card otherwise they will be guilty of NOT GIVING A FLYING FUCK, the worst possible crime they can commit

5) If the team is losing, a player must go to the supporters and lift his outstretched arms in the air to demand MORE NOISE from the fans. This proves he thrives on the PASSION of the fans and WANTS TO WIN as much as they do

6) If a player is black then he must produce DOUBLE the amount of PASSION required from a white player to correctly demonstrate that HE CARES and WANTS TO WIN AT ALL COSTS

7) If a player SPITS then he is a DISGRACE to his profession, if a player CRIPPLES someone with a HORROR TACKLE then he is HARD BUT FAIR

8) If a player decides to leave on a BOSMAN then he is DISLOYAL, if he signs a new deal then he is GREEDY