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VERY SUPERSTITIOUS 26-10-05
An immortal hit by the great wibbly wobbly head of soul from Motown, Stevie Wonder. The way our mob are playing lately, Mr.Wonder with his lack of vision could read the game better than McLaren is presently doing.
I am beginning to think that Sven's Svengali and Boro's part time Boss, has a particularly bad superstition over certain numbers with the way he chops and changes the formation, week in and week out and even during a game.
4-4-2, 5-4-1, 3-5-2, 4-3-3, 4-5-1, even ultra-defensive 10-0-0, well that's the home formation sorted then. It's blatantly obvious that the Ginger Yorkshire pudding keeps getting his formations mixed up with his frigging favourite weekly Lotto numbers.
He's infuriatingly all over the bloody place with more formations than the dreaded Luftwaffe during the height of the Blitz.
Which, reminds me of an old and favourite joke.
Parky, is interviewing the only Dutch WW2 fighter pilot who fought for the RAF in the halcyon days of Spitfire resistance during the great Battle of Britain. Parky asks the legendary man, Austin Van Twelvehundredweight; "So Austin, can you please recount to our studio audience how you managed to evade a whole pursuing squadron of German aircraft during the height of the great air battle?"
Austin answered; "Jar, Michael. I vos just coming out of zis bank of cloud and these ten fokkers appeared and ver chasing my tail. I vent dis vay and dat, loopa da loop, flipped left den right but I couldn't loose dees fokkers !"
At that Parky interjected; "Austin, I'd just like to explain to the audience at home that Fokkers are actually German aircraft!"
"Ja, dat's right Michael, BUT these Fokkers ver Messerscmitts."
Superstition is a very insidious curse that's borne by thousands of professional sports people the world over. Increase that figure to literally billions when it comes to the average Footer fan, who'll go through every ritual, no matter how fucking stupid, degrading, or ultimately painful, to ensure that their team gets the effect of the right karma, the right voodoo, the right vibe for the next game.
Over the years, I reckon I've degenerated in this regard and gradually got worse and worse in the respect that all the superstitious stuff starts earlier and earlier in the week. Now, the days prior to a game for my Beloved Boro become a minefield of indecision, obsession, compulsion and this stupid bloody routine of superstitious rituals and weird actions.
A grown man of 48 should not be putting himself through all this at a supposed enlightened wiser stage of life. Most of it is minor but disturbing to a normal non-believer. You know, one of those boring buggers who doesn't like the world game and would rather go to a floodlit tiddleywinks tournament or worse still, horror of horrors, nude bingo in Skegness.
When walking or driving and a red car passes I mutter, almost as if I have a verbal affliction of sorts, 'C'mon Boro!'. I kiss my index finger then touch all my Boro stuff on the study wall, the MFC clock from Bali which spells the name as Middelsbrough - had to buy that - the Riverside picture, the Ayresome Park pennant...
Then I proceed to do it in reverse order, God knows how many times. Up into the wardrobe where I re-arrange my numerous Boro shirts from various eras beginning first with the Zenith Data Systems cup final shirt, into a line that must end up with all the shirts in descending chronological order with the glorious lion emblem facing forward.
I then kiss each badge in turn. I hang one of those shirts randomly on the day of the game with my collection of Boro scarfs. I used to always wear my old Boro 'Admiral' training top, the one I bought from the old Ayresome Park club shop, apparently the last one they had.
Purchased in 1994 during a last minute shopping rush on the morning of the day we flew back after a Blighty holiday. Stupidly I didn't try it on till I got back to Oz and fuck me, if it wasn't designed to be worn by Bernard Manning after ten helpings of fish and chips and sticky date pudding.
I looked like the skinny gadgee in the after photo of a weight-watchers advertisement but wearing the fat fucker before clothes. The superstition bug still got me, I wore the bastard even though it swamped me with sleeves scraping the deck like it was made for a refugee from Planet of the Apes.
I still go through the ritual of wearing red undies on the day of a match. I wear my favourite red socks on match days. Not a good or cool look with board shorts and thongs nee flip flops in the height of Summer.
Although I reckon I've improved in the ritual stakes, more specifically with the personal hygiene bit, probably brought about by the exertions of the 1990 World Cup. The glorious Gazza and Lineker era of Italia '90 when England came so close to glory and what should have been the real final was played out between the third and fourth teams instead of the spiteful bore we all witnessed.
I wore an England shirt and a pair of blue shorts and my lucky Boro red jocks/undies throughout the whole tournament. None of these items once got washed during that whole month long competition as I'd vowed to only allow the Persil to do it's cleansing business after a defeat to England.
What with also refraining from shaving and living a nocturnal life as games were on at 3am here, probably explains why the Bride decided to avoid me and cut off my supply of the Wild Thing and the then, pre-children, regular 'whey hey' bouts of bare arsed boxing.
The Bride intoned, "Out of bounds, I'd rather shag Harold Steptoe". Charming.
Basically stating the health concerns and the effect on her nasal passages would mean she'd have to wear a gas mask and while she didn't mind having to dress up as Robin while I jumped off the wardrobe dressed as Batman - c'mon yer must have done? - she had to draw the line somewhere. The fact that my personal hygiene really couldn't be vouched for, especially as I wore the rig constantly and as I was rapidly beginning to smell like an overfed otter's arse in a heatwave.
By the end of that historic tournament, those grundies were particularly loathsome, as you could imagine. I did get an offer from Australia's most eminent infectious diseases Micro-Biologist, Dr. Rufus P.Chuckabutty to scientifically study those fine crusty shitcatchers for his germ thesis.
Incidentally, they had to be surgically removed from my nether regions after that sickening penalty defeat to the Boxheads. Don't mention the War, either of them. The Umbro England shirt wasn't much better being so yellow in patina it resembled an ageing faded Wolves top.
Mind you, these women are smart buggers and usually get their own way because all our male needs and wants are simple. Sex, food, sex, beer, sex, porno, sex, and sleep. Not necessarily in that order.
The Bride got so pissed off at seeing me in those pathetic red grundies that she turfed them. By then they were virtually self-destructing and threadbare, a washed out faded pink in colour, a nackersack crutch area like an old hammock made of tea strainers.
That was a sad day when she finally threw them out and she really crossed the line in my book. I got very angry with her and told her in no uncertain terms, "Any more of yer slaver and you'll do this washing up yerself!"
I mean, us blokes wouldn't go through their knicker draw then cull the crusty demons and turf out the Elle McPherson lacey g-strings and stretched jubbly holsters, would we? Well not very often...
I spat the dummy and pined for a few weeks and swear my pebbles and todger took the huff too. I actually scavenged them out of the bin twice until she finally set them alight on the BBQ. That certainly gave the T-bone and snaggers a fairly unusual and unique taste I can tell you.
"Oh! You must give me the recipe for your unusual marinade sauce Peter!"
Then out she went and bought me some new jocks. Twenty pairs of bright Boro red budgie smugglers. Clever Lass the Bride.
Superstition is a bit of a curse. Possibly even a mental disease, but in one fell swoop she'd cured me of mine and replaced it with total fucking confusion because I can't bloody tell which is my favourite pair.
Enough Said!
ErimusRed
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