Stop Coming To My House

It's safe standing at Wycombe tonight, and the media will train their eyes on the habitat of the Drone Army like never before. The great and good and the spooks and crooks will all be piled in the shallow terrace, hoping that the likes of Hillsborough does not occur in South Bucks where Red Kites fly.

The truth that dare not speak its name is that standing at Wycombe games is a vile experience, akin to freezing your urine and pissing it solid into your own stomach. The population of the Spine-Numbing Kop is made up of casual racists and the sort of brain-dead children that make you wish that King Herod was appointed to Wycombe Council.

The thought of these people becoming a national cause celebre is one that only adds more fuel to the idiocy of the national press and the rapid, irreversible decline of football as a sport. All true supporters should hope that the Valley Terrace collapses tonight and that a seething mass of rickets-deformed limbs disappears into a screaming blood pit.

Glasgow Mega-Snake

It is fair to say that Wycombe Wanderers and Boxing Day mix like Martin Luther King and the racist fans in the Woodlands. They baffle and scare each other, and there is a undercurrent of distaste and hatred that oozes from their eyeballs.

Put frankly, Wycombe have won once on Boxing Day since poking their noses into the Football League, and that was against a paltry 10-man Bournemouth side in 1999, when all the cool kids were worried about the Y2K bug and the high price of ketamine. Since that late 20th century day there has been nothing but defeat, the worst being the vile rape at Brighton two years ago, when Captain Fantastic Roger Johnson was sent off for mouthing one out.

This year should be different, but then they said that in 1878 and look what happened. Torquay away should be a splash on the beach, a whistle in the wind, a burnt face on a milky stance. But the danger is that three defeats in a row could be waiting just round the corner and that The Project could be dead by the time the festivities are over, drowned like a shit puppy in a muslin sack.

Please don't shatter our dreams, they're all we were given for Christmas.

Mr Beast

Alas, like intercourse with your own fingers, all good things must come to an end and The Project took a fearful battering at Bury last weekend, so much so that it put the Meat Clinic out of kilter for a good few days. All the Christmas Geese somehow escaped the futuristic confines of the laser cage on Saturday evening and only one of them has been found, flapping weakly at a bucket warehouse near Marsh Gibbon.

There are many in the vile Drone Army who have subsequently said that they expected Glum John’s bunch of losers to lose at Gigg Lane on Saturday, but they are speaking after the event, like Paul Simon in Sun City.

The truth is that this defeat was nailed on from the moment that arrogance spread through the team like ebola. TV crews swelled the numbers in training last week to more than 30,000 and there are strong rumours that the squad trained in boots made of solid gold last week as a gesture to loans.co.uk

Any hope that the situation would be rectified at Walsall on Tuesday evening were dashed by another late goal and another long suck at the nipple of defeat. No cup glory will be celebrated next May, and the last chance to go to the big ground in Cardiff disappears, at least until Beeks Construction destroy the new Wembley.

Christmas is the season of giving but Wycombe are taking it far too seriously. Get them in for assault course training on Boxing Day and fuck the consequences.

Exhuming McCarthy

Sometimes there are so many coincidences that you start to think that maybe Jack the Ripper was right and that there were too many prostitutes in the lanes and alleys of east London. I know that at the South England Meat Clinics conference in 1986 this view was espoused to the utter horror of Tory guest, Cecil Parkinson.

"Not in my name," he wagged, wiping whore-blood from his dainty yet gnarled fingers. "Not in my name."

There were more sinister coincidences on Tuesday evening when The Project returned to action after a 10-day break. Would Determined John have it in him to re-motivate his super-squad? Well the answer was yes, but only in his traditional half-time POWER-talk, sponsored of course by Amersham College.

Boston were the visitors and although they were the Fenland weirdo versions rather than the eastern seaboard maniacs, there was a War On Terror-like sheen to the whole evening. Firstly they almost brought the unbeaten run to a crashing end, with some Tora Bora Cave like errors in the Wycombe defence. Secondly they left with a point, meaning that Proud John's Wycombe side now have a win/draw record of 9/11.

Yes, mull it over, the two most sinister numbers in the English language, now applicable to the 2005-06 season. What once seemed like innocent fun is now a mighty 20-game Evil Empire, just waiting to be toppled by insurgents and John Beck fundamentalists.

My friends, The Project has never been in such danger. Other League Two clubs envy us our freedom, our Buckinghamshire way of life and our love of democracy. So what if we voted out the constitution on 7/29, it was the Wycombe way, and we shall fight these enemies in the only way we know. With slick football and a heady, eager army of Drones.

We commence bombing in five minutes and they'll never take us alive. The Radnage caves will be our Camp X-Ray. The world has changed forever, and only true love for The Project will keep us alive in these troubled times.

Peace. And War.

Slow Hands

The Project takes a well-earned rest this weekend as Jubilant John and his crew go on a mid-season tour of Burkina Faso, organised by Meat Clinic Travel Experiences. They'll be visiting a halal butchers in Ouagadougou and Charlie Unicorn will be lecturing the local university on the current beach resort crisis in landlocked countries.

The reason for this sojourn? We got banged out the cup by the vile Shoe Goons of Northampton. Am I bothered? Not in the slight one.

The thing is, I hate the FA Cup nowadays. Like riding Jackie Onassis in her pomp, Wycombe fans have eaten from the top table and everything nowadays tastes bland and grey in comparison. Lulu Sanchez may have been evil but 2001 lingers like white phosphorus and we are still blinded by that trip to Filbert Street.

So while the nation's drones bang one out about lower league heroes and non-league grafters this weekend, take solace in the fact that The Project is safe for another three days at least.