Pull The Wires From The Wall

16 is the number of games that it took Lulu Sanchez to save Wycombe in 1998-99, but not even his cracked gloom-face could imagine going 16 games without defeat in the league, not if away matches were involved.

How times change. Brutal John and his The Project have recast the boundaries of superstition, and when Cheaterborough cruise into town on Saturday, the mythical numberwill be there within our grasp. How sweet it will be to reach the landmark against a club run by Barry Fry and managed by the proven racist Mark Wright.

Italia 90 seems a long time ago, and the media clamour for Wright to be put in the team now seems like a vile dream. But it's true, he was once the saviour, before he predictably turned to darkness and evil. His deserved punishment is a spell in the body-strewn fenlands, his only food the limbs he can pull from within the flat hills of his imagination.

It is a shame that Joe Ross is not the referee on Saturday, as his emnity could feed our dignity, and penalties would flow from the heavens into our eager, breadcrumby mouths.

Meat Clinic Rules: Ice Ice Baby

Bigmouth Strikes Again

Timber Tone Adams has been spouting like a dolphin with a harpoon in its skull again this week, bigging up his chances of a glamour return to England from Holland, preferably not in the lock-down chamber of a P&O ferry from Zeebrugge. (Which I know is in Belgium, fact fans)

The man is rapidly becoming a laughing stock, and, if rumours are to be believed, was seen last week trying to knock down a dam in northern Holland with a vintage foam hammer from Mallett's Mallet. This is not the action of a man ready to go to an educated club, like Middlesbrough.

And let's not forget, Adams is indeed an educated man nowadays. Having eschewed a life of pissing in his underwear while sat round a dinner table, he knuckled down and got his GCSEs, even reading (sic) Shakespeare, who he is probably better than.

Adams then went to college, doing the sort of tinpot Sports Science degree that all the other idiots in your class at school who couldn't actually think for themselves but who still wanted to go to university did. No doubt Adams brought his own brand of thinking to the course, branding leg muscles "unmotivatable" and declaring that the secret to sporting success was in the thick vein of a fisherman's penis.

He will not be remembered fondly at Wycombe, and I am sure that the town, nestled in the Chilterns, will remain a source of anguish to the addled thinker. Sometimes things just don't work how you want them to, like the braking system in a Sierra Cosworth.

Deep Hit Of Morning Sun

Football genius Kevin Betsy suffered from Tour Of Duty Cop Syndrome last night in the Associate Members tie with Redbridge Forest. The syndrome is the legal guarantee that a stern, but at heart decent, American cop will always get killed two days before he is due to retire.

He'll investigate a harmless 911 about a banging door in a pretzel parlour only to find himself gutted by a serial killer. As his own anus is fed to him by a gloved hand he will reflect on the fact that his handsome pension will now be solely devoted to keeping his fat wife in Krispy Kremes and amyl nitrate.

Betsy shouldn't really have been playing against Walthamstow Avenue last night but Greedy John has his eyes on a showpiece cup event, where he can dip his moustache in gold and let the poor folk of Cardiff touch him full on the mouth. Betsy's leg paid the price and now Wycombe will have to manage without the boy known at the Meat Clinic as "Darling Kevinella".

But Scotch John has faced difficulties before this season and led the team through the smoking mess. Tommy Mooney will surely step up to the task, even if he is already nervously contemplating his retirement. Even bald men cut wide open.

We Are Scientists

There was a Meat Clinic contingent tucked deep in the Woodlands stand on Saturday, for the first time in a long while. The sights contained within were not pretty. An amorphous mass of meta-drones and lamb-lickers, all of them tutting and grumbling and yapping like bent pups.

The game wasn't the best, as Manic John's The Project spluttered, faced with what was a brutal array of Northamptonshire apes. Nonetheless, a club record was broken and the dancers in the blue hills were smiling kindly once more.

The reaction of the violated Drone Army was cynical and clinical. Their boos rang out into the suspiciously warm October air as the players looked up to the heavens for support. They deserve more than they got, they gave less than they could, we're all tainted after this sorry afternoon.

Like Herod

It's Friday in the Meat Clinic and while the good people of Brill Hill and Butter Mountain pile into the shop to buy meat-based bone products, I am fretting about the coming of the neanderthals of Irthlingborough.

You see Pious John's The Project comes under its 14th league examination tomorrow against Rushden, and though their side is a lowly bunch of ex-convicts and roofers, they could yet spring a surprise. For to even survive three or four days in a so-called town like Irthlingborough is unthinkable for the likes of you and I.

They are a morality-free, desperate bunch with no sense of history - in either their war-torn county or their football club, which was formed just eight days ago by shoe-emperor, Max Beasley. Dr Martens are the sure sign of a teenage girl with personality issues or a young man with violence coded into his testicular DNA. To think that this company's wealth has funded (but not for much longer) an evil football team is too much to bear.

Upbeat John will send his men out in their white boots, red boots, blue boots, but Rushden will be wearing steel toecaps and they could hammer our unbeaten dreams into the crisp autumnal Buckinghamshire sky.

We have to stand firm against the horror, my friends. Make sure you tie double bows in your laces tomorrow.

The Great Beyond

Apologies to our army (non-drone) of readers for a lack of activity in the Meat Clinic recently, the CIA have been investigating our tusk suppliers, so we've been "run off our feet".

Still, there's no need for our elegant prose when Confident John's The Project is going well. Today's penis-sharpening 3-3 romp with the roughhouse crew from Chester means that it is now 12 games unbeaten and goals are flying so fast it's like 9/11. Some gloom-pandas might point to the shaky, creaky Wycombe defence but they are missing the point of The Project. If Wycombe were winning 4-0 every week then the art would be lost. It is necessary to see suffering and pain before the true beauty emerges.

Clever John knows what he is doing and he is crafting a machine so unpredictable and so beautiful that it could one day fire us to the moon or it could drill straight into the heart of planet earth, releasing magma of seven different colours.

Believe in The Project and you will surely feel the touch of the Lord in your waistband.