Break Up The Family

Retarded SMBU Chief Executive oily sailor has long espoused the view that Wycombe Fans Are Vermin™ , something that has rarely not caused great discussion in the Meat Clinic (one time someone climbed into a ham to prove a point and caught ebola). The question always remained, was this exaggeration? Were the neanderthal grunts of the Drone Army and the clipped racism of the Blood Rinse Brigade the exception to the rule or were these people the brunt of the Wycombe support?

Ladies and gentlemen, we have our answer.

With the overwhelming decision to approve future sponsorship of Adams Park, the die is cast, there is no way back from this: the split is now permanent and over the next months and years the true fans of what was once Wycombe Wanderers will drift away, their stomachs churning in disgust as what was once their club transforms into a corporate franchise with as much connection to the town as a diamond mine.

Previously we could gather in fields and rage to the dying harvest moon about the big men who had robbed us. It was Bullet Beeks who first sold off the ground name, laughing and sneering as he signed the Causeway contract, dressed in the very suit Frank Adams had worn when he gave us Loakes Park. Yes, it's oh so easy to rail at him as he builds a new town for the 22nd century, all bars on windows and machine gun turrets.

But now it's the ordinary fans who have chosen to sell the club's heritage down the Wye, and it will be as much as I can bear not to steam in with fists flying and decompress their bloated smug faces at a future home game. "We need the money," they sneer, using the same logic that necessitates them churning out fat posh children at a rate of three a week and filling the nation's public schools.

Our one remaining hope, Ben Kenobi, is that the 300 or so who voted against the name change can mobilise as a force for good, a pressure group, a rebel alliance. It is unlikely that the club would fancy going through similar hassle to last time, and the chief executive has indicated as much. There are other ways to make 50k a year (pimp out the wives of the vice-presidents for starters) and until a new sign gets hammered into ground on Hillbottom Road we have not lost yet.

Betrayal always hurts but not as much as a machine gun. No surrender to the Vermin, for that is what they are and what they will remain.

Circus Envy

It's always strange going to mainland Europe for a massive Meat Conference, away from the lunar wails of the internet, which of course includes the hated self-styled Wycombe Gasroom, the biggest cash cow on the web other than youtube, amazon and Northampton Spencer's new official website.

Anyway, it seems I return to the beautiful surrounds of Brill Hill to discover that there has been a world record 76th discussion on the merits of going or not going to the MK Franchise Dons v Wycombe Wanderers PLC game on December 16. The usual droning scabs have been ploughing through their reasons why it is fine to go the game and why they do not feel any wider sympathy for the death of the modern game.

Some of them shriek that other clubs in the division do not seem to be suffering from the same hand-wringing but they are missing the point, just as fucking usual. The stark fact is that Wycombe Wanderers are the only club in the country who have to share the same county as the dreaded Franchise. Yes, north Bucks is a baleful misty tundra filled with bandits and rape alarms but it is the same designated county all the same, so to see some Wycombe fans talk about going to the game and SUPPORT THE LADS is like pouring agent orange into your cervix.

Why can't these people see that to go to the National Hockey Stadium (it's what the nation wanted) is like getting Peter Sutcliffe to drive their daughter to her wedding? Sure, he's a good driver and has a steady hand in heavy traffic but the baggage is too much to contemplate for anyone sane.

Fuck going to watch AFC Wimbledon the week before Christmas, let's all head to Milton Keynes after all, but armed with paintball guns, loaded up with traitorous yellow and ready to cover the wretched scabs with enough emulsion to send them blind and stumbling. These vermin can then hurry to the nearest franchised NHS trust to try and save their vision before all they are left with is their own murdered souls.

Rule Of Three

No-one wants to lose to Accrington Stanley, it's a disappointing fate up there with being ejected from the Venture Scouts or being felt up by a wheezing milkman. But these things happen, and they will happen again and they will happen with such regularity that you fire weapons of mass destruction at brief reflections of your own weeping skull.

The football season never settles down until October. This is the month when leaves fall on the pitch like snow and a fan falls over on soft ice and vows never to return to the ground. Hopefully it will be someone who does not deserve to see Lambert's bristling revolution, someone who still acts like the monasteries are open, someone who is hanging onto those Corn Laws like they're soul-defining.

We don't need corn any more anyway, I've got pop-tarts sellotaped to the base of my spine and I keep reaching round for a sly nip.

The truth is that Wycombe's squad is decimated with injury, mainly due to years of malnutrition sponsored by the board of directors. It is rumoured that one Liverpudlian former director was filled with hatred that no Wanderers icon had suffered scurvy and banned fruit and vegetables at the club in response. That is the size of the task facing Wycombe's new manager, so no wonder it is a slow process. This is a club whose chairman demanded that the transfer fee received for Roger Johnson was spent on a TV documentary about how Pete Lansley robbed the club of everything it owned in the early 1990s. He even went as far as to hire an actor to play Lansley, but he then got a part in "Painting My Woman Grey" on ITV.

We're fighting against an army of blethering apes and perhaps Torquay United will be the victims tomorrow evening. I pray for their destruction from my tent in Peterloo.