Black Lace - Do The Conga
As you may, or may not, know…or in fact care, I am a Wolves fan based down in The Big Smoke. The land of cockles and muscles, apples and pears and Danny f**king Dyer has treated me well since I moved down. The only down side of this is due to added expenses, as well as a habit for spending all my hard-earned money on beer and chicken, I have to contend with watching our games in my bed, armed to the teeth with ginger beer, shouting rubbish insults at my laptop.
However, on Sunday, I got the chance to venture to lands new and far.
Someplace warm. A place where the beer flows like wine. Where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. I’m talking about a little place, called Fulham (Thanks Dumb and Dumber for that line)
Yes, I decided to go to a pub, in Fulham, where it is likely I would the only Wolves fan in the pub. (I’d like to note that I also hadn’t…HADN’T been drinking when I made this decision)
I took my good friend Jason ‘I just support football’ Jones, along for the trip. After all, if I got lost in the wilderness of Fulham and had to stay alive, I’m definitely not going to eat my own arm!
We reached Fulham after a fair amount of trouble (this is however another story, and will undoubtedly be in the deleted secions of the special edition of this blog post)
We had to shield our eyes when we got off the bus, something was radiant, almost burning our eyes. When we had adjusted to it, we were met with something that would set the precedent for the rest of our visit.
A gold laced curtain, embroidered with the words ‘Welcome to Fulham’
As we stared at it, it was opened by its tassels by a dole of doves. We slowly walked through, hesitant about what we would encounter. Instantly, we were surrounded by fountains, pouring diamonds down a rock face made of girls. Girls made of gold, (not the TV show) dancing whilst feeding the fish in the pool with Rolexs. We tried to stand on the road, but they were slippy. Looking down, the streets were paved with rubies, we couldn’t move, we needed help.
At that moment, we were met by a herd of swans, wearing top hats and waistcoats with golden pocket watches. One of them came over to us, he had a badge on him that said ‘Taxi’
‘Where to sir?’
‘Ummm…the pub, please’
‘Oh I see young sir, off to the game of the football are we? I say, it should be quite a spiffing game!’
And off we went, high above the skies. Below us we could see children, riding around on their Ferrari scooters. The local swimming pool, filled to the rafters with families, swimming through the sea of caviar. The ponds where the lilies were cucumber slices, the fish were tuna and the water was Pimms.
The swan lowered and landed in front of our destination. And with a ‘cheerio’ and a tip of his hat, he was off again. We watched as he flew off.
‘What the hell is this place?’
‘God knows mate. But it doesn’t look cheap. All I can afford is a Tesco reduced cheese and pickle sandwich’
Armed with our reduced sandwiches, we went into the pub. Walking past the hat and tails bankers, sitting in the leather chairs, smoking their pipes and reading their copies of the Financial Times, we found a spot at the back.
What proceeded to occur over the next two hours shook their society as they knew it.
Their world was crumbling, and all because of 11 guys, half of them Irish, wearing gold, who were obviously pumped up, but not in the way Danny Murphy likes to talk about.
They kept on looking at their pocket watches, both hands spinning backwards at a furious speed. The fruit in their pools of Pimms quickly dissolving, turning their fair ponds into a mould infested stink bath.
The most professional and positive performance I had seen from us in so long time was met by a collection of sighs, which turned into shouts and screams, and was followed by men choking on oysters and gold infused champagne.
And there I was, sat there, in my shorts and my trainers which are battered having been in both an ocean in Spain and the canal in London, smiling like I’d just stolen their Waitrose priority card off them.
The looks on their faces behind their monocles said so much. They were seeing a team, who they thought they should at least pick up a draw from pass them off the park, create countless more chances and defend against them like a wall made of George Elokobi’s chest.
Fulham couldn’t be more miserable. I couldn’t be happier.
And for some reason, whenever I am really, really happy…I start singing…Do The Conga.
It’s an awful habit, one that I’ve tried to seek help for. But at that moment in time, I could have done the conga with somebody suffering from leprosy and I wouldn’t care.
So we left the pub, with a skip in my step, and a conga in my head, to catch the swan back to normal civilisation. He was waiting outside.
‘Back to Central London my good man…or swan…whatever’
He looked at the smile on my face, then down at my trainers, and then back at me.
‘F*ck you and your crap f*cking trainers, you Wolves supporting bastard’
And that, ladies and gentleman, was Fulham.