Cod Almighty | Article

by Alistair Wilkinson

3 January 2012

I'm back, feeling freed but with a need to get up to
speed and drag along a few fans that I did breed. Wait,
I'm on my own, the eldest fell for Chelsea and the other
two couldn't give a shit for Grimsby. What's that all about?
No need to scream and shout cos I'm back, not quite on
track, and ready for some flack.

Give it a bit of Jason Statham, and by that I mean stay-
fum. Let's get in there and smash 'em and baste 'em,
bash 'em and paste 'em. Do the Imps; make 'em look
like wimps. Rides and cribs never get any pimps. Been
out of the game, fishing rhyme tells me to do shrimps.
Do we fish for shrimps? Do we fish? Fuck knows, let's
just do the Imps!

Seasonal double-header, seasonal double-bedder.
Take 'em to bed and put 'em there, give 'em a scare:
Silly clothes, make 'em wear, everybody stand and
stare; take their teeth and sit them in a rocking chair, an
empty gun and crazy white hair, cackle, cackle, shoot -
no flare, pass – no flair; rock, rock, wooden porch, rotten
chair, creaking here and creaking there.

Keep our own furniture in line. What's been happening
in so short a time? Looking fucked, looking doomed.
The fella with the scythe never ducked and loomed and
loomed. And loomed again, cutting this and cutting
that, starving us and killing the cat. Used to Whiskers
and can't do Felix (Nestle and their dirty tricks). A dusty
trace leaves ashes in the face.

But there's grace and everybody thinks it but no one
wants to jinx it. Keep it up, puff it up, blow it up –
that means inflated! Don't let that happen, we'll be
frustrated and feel deflated. Just let the schizzle sizzle,
don't let it boil; keep the hot dogs warm in the brine
and feel a tingle, not a shiver, in your spine. There's a
long way to go till we can party like it's...

Woah! Hide away and do what you can; load up LMA
and sign Zidane. Even the console lets you count every
fan. Won the European cup and got 20k, man!

Knew a guy called Hubble Bubble. His thoughts were
always a muddle, and he liked to see a bit of trouble.
He liked to think of himself as a puzzle but he was just a
muddle. I already said muddle, I mean he was a puddle:
He got walked through and his colours were a jumble,
grey and brown, more a muddy grey I'd have to say, and
more mud than grit. People would spit and on him it
would sit like a white whirl till someone walked through
him again and gave it a twirl.

We're twirling now, as sure as the moon was jumped by
that jumped-up cow. As sure as Spider-man will swing
and as sure as David Moyes' eyebrows look like the
Thing. As sure as the Pontoon will sing and as sure as
the Findus will take wing. I'm back and with this ring I
do pledge to the crazy lord and accept the snap of the
Blundell bungee cord.