ROARY VERSUS ... TERRY BYTES

Pundit's prediction: Big, clunky and amazingly slow, no I'm not talking about Lee Clark but Terry Bytes, Fulham's hilariously named mascot and Roary's next formidable opponent.

If you thought having a scrap with a six foot bright green pregnant dinosaur that resembled a poorly conceived distress flair was ridiculous then how the hell you will take having a barney with what is essentially an oversized styrofoam laptop is anybody's guess. But that is the next contender who is standing in our hero's way so we're just going to have to live with the implausibility of it all as we move on to assess the statistics and form of the two competitors.

With an easy-shut monitor that's about as snappy as its name, this London-based monstrosity- no, not Chas and Dave- 'snooker loopy nuts are we'- yeah, if you don't shut the fuck up soon you won't have any nuts left to sing about, I can tell you. 'Nuts?' Bollocks more like, at least they had their self-assessment right, shame about the rest of it really- certainly does present a challenge, although with its in-built 486 processor, mirroring that of Fulham's post-Saha strike-force, its speed is arguably its major disadvantage. However, like with all computers it does have one formidable weapon- the ability to flash up porn at any given moment. Indeed it is this that appears to be demonstrated on the screen, with the reflection of a contented young man clearly in the final throws of giving himself a certain kind of individual pleasure evident for all to see. This is almost as distracting as seeing Edwin van der Saar's ugly face loom up in front of you as you bear down towards goal and it is this that could tip the balance in favour of the novelty typewriter. However, this is extremely ironic as it is well known that Terry couldn't even score in an internet brothel so as long as Roary concentrates in defence, he should be able to pick up- like chlamydia maybe- a comfortable win. Indeed Terry's woeful libido is one of his many frailties, as he often finds it hard to pick off contenders to obtain the top prizes. Thus a life of steady stability prevails, and it is this that our leonine hero could use to his advantage. Furthermore, this lack of libido is also detrimental to his performance, which is often a little subdued such that even when he does score, there's always the chance to come in and steal his conquests from him, thus often resulting in his defeat. Indeed the only thing about him that is extended is his warranty, and even that is far from certain. Thus Terry Bytes is rather an inappropriate name, it's more like Terry gnaws slowly at the wall for a bit before collapsing in an exhausted heap. So I suppose all Roary needs to do is to get Carole Smilie and the Changing Rooms team to put a free-standing non-loading- as with Clark in the team, there is no structure on earth that would be able to support the weight of that- wall and victory should be guaranteed.

Terry also displays further weaknesses that Roary can exploit. It is common for him to perform to its optimum potential for the first few months after which he often has a tendency to crash, Michael Ricketts style. That and they also have the same stature, barely scraping a performance at all in the final months of its year-long warranty period. Indeed it gets worse as because the components are all hideously out-dated, not to mention expensive, coupled with there being little money to invest in improvements, he often remains broken well into the new campaign. Furthermore, like the Fulham team, he often has a problem with its power supply, which in fact is Terry's major weakness. It is this jugular, or the plug as it's more commonly called, that Roary should attack first as without this comfort blanket, the computer undergoes the same transformation that Fulham did under Chris Coleman, being completely useless and unable to operate. Either that or Roary could turn the electricity off altogether, which would not only aid his chances but also present the most favourable conditions for all (Craven) Cottagers out there, after all I suppose they like plunging into darkness, don't they? However the most efficacious way to defeat this foe is to deploy a weapon so powerful and humiliating that it will cause Terry to emigrate to Switzerland in a huff. The British passport. A few smacks across the face with this, usually aided by Her Majesty's Government along with Roary's infamous dance will taunt the computer enough to cause him to break down permanently, unhappy that his Egyptian parts have cost him the chance of having a permanent home. Which indeed is very much like Fulham. Thus if the right tactics are deployed at the most opportune times then despite Roary's much advertised lust, his drive should ultimately see him through against this poorest of novelty calculators.


The mascot is the one in the middle

The match: Both Roary and Terry run out to muted applause, the neutral end surprisingly making more noise than all the other stands combined, which is odd considering that most of the people there have probably come straight from work, thinking it would be a slightly more entertaining evening than watching Pixie grind her tits in their faces for the umpteenth visit to the local strip club. After all, who needs two tits when you can watch eleven at Craven Cottage for a similar price, particularly when there's a possibility of climax during the admittedly rare time they score. But then this rare scoring rate is something I would expect most businessmen are totally used to, making Fulham their ideal club to support. Plus both wear white shirts and in this world of fashion, it's important to generate a look, no matter how uninspired or lacking in creativity it is. And who better to know about a lack of creativity than businessmen? Precisely.

As the two adversaries size up the small crowd, Roary waves to his adoring fans, who sing their appreciation with a bout of 'There's only one Roary lion'. Meanwhile the home fans bait the lion with the phrase 'where've your trousers gone?' after Sunday's humiliation at Arsenal, with some of them removing their shorts and waving their backsides in the general direction of Roary. Edwin van der Saar meanwhile unprofessionally joins in by waving his face at the lion, which only winds up Roary even more. In enraged reaction Roary strides towards him, hatred cascading from his cartoon eyes as the keeper's face instantly moulds into that of Gunnersaurus, his nemesis and object of his humiliation. Unaware of the advancing lion, van der Saar gestures to the crowd, waving his backside at the home fans in mock encouragement, urging and goading them to give the lion their worst. Then he turns back round and his face drops as he comes nose to snout with the rabid lion, phlegm distending from his battered jowls, his nose snorting ghosts of hate as if exorcising a memory.

Then Roary starts dancing, his backside rhythmically rotating in circles, bewitching the audience by its hypnotic effect as van der Saar starts to shiver slowly in fear, petrified over what the unpredictable lion will do next. Roary starts clapping his hands slowly and his following copy, getting louder and louder as his whole body starts to sway, back and forth gently. Perplexed van der Saar looks on as Roary starts rubbing himself up and down his leg as if he were a pole in a strip club. The businessmen look on, smug in making the right decision and hoping that they would see some leonine tail. They start cheering wildly and throw notes on to the pitch, giving one of the linesmen a nasty papercut that urgently needs medical attention. Two businessmen get ejected from the ground. Roary meanwhile grinds harder and harder, the crowd dissolving into raptures as he thrusts over and over again, trapping the goalkeeper's legs between his knees, preventing his escape. The keeper looks down disturbed as the lion looks up at him in faux erotic abandon, masking the true revulsion that lies behind the furry mask. He continues, harder and harder as the keeper desperately struggles, trying to force the lion away from his personal space. But still it's ongoing, further and further still, faster and faster as the crowd increase their clapping, shouting and hollering for the lion to finish the job. A few minutes later, minutes that felt like years to the keeper, Roary stands up, sated and relaxed at the job now done and looks deeply into the Dutchman's eyes. The keeper looks back, breathing heavily in relief, just glad that it's all over. He forces an anorexic smile on his emaciated face. Then Roary punches him square in the mouth, knocking him out and turns to leave. Upon doing so, he removes his shorts, squats over him and waves his arse in his general direction, to the whistles, cat-calls and cheering of the various parts of the audience. Then he pulls his shorts up and walks off to meet his date for the evening, to be broadcast live on the Internet.

With the crowd now in raptures, not least the randy businessmen, the referee decides it is probably best to start the bout. As the bell rings for the commencement of round one, Roary's adrenaline is so high that he is immediately on the offensive, and indeed remains so for the rest of the half. The computer tries to move to outwit him but being a rather sluggish, older model, he does not have the quick steps to be able to outwit the rabid lion for any considerable length of time, despite the stiff defence that he puts up. Thus there is an element of Terry hanging on throughout the first half although this is also attributed to Roary's intricate approach work which often breaks down when he tries to get the final blow in. However a few fists do reign down on the computer but his considerable amount of styrofoam padding means he absorbs these without incurring too much damage beyond an increase in lethargy. Indeed many in the ground feel it is merely a matter of time before the lion breaks through the computer screen, which is a view that is reflected by Roary's fans vociferously chanting 'Roary Lion' before clapping inanely like drunken seals expectant for a penguin kebab. In response, Roary looks up at the fans who had made the large journey from, erm, their offices in Central London, and applauds them in acknowledgement before concentrating on the bout again. The home crowd meanwhile try to spur the novelty cash register on but in reality, they are about as lethargic as their hero, and as the first half reaches its close there is little for them to cheer beyond the score being kept level.

The blowing of the whistle for the end of the half does not however result in the quelling of the lion's rage. He looks around the ground in bemusement, the anger inherent in his system making focussing on anything difficult, his head throbbing and aching through the demons begging to be released. Either that or it was due to the poor choice of halftime music that was being played over the PA. Whatever it was Roary could not relax, and with a lack of hard drugs on him (curse this damn fitness regime that he was forced into by his coach) he had to find another way of quenching his feelings otherwise his focus in the second half would be completely shot. He looked around searching for a target. Scanning the goal line, he remembered van der Saar prostrate on the ground, a symbol to his own profligate and a testament to what happens when you mess with a lion away from the savannah of the Boro. But he was now gone and all that remained was children taking penalties in oversized goals. And he couldn't pick on them, particularly after the bad press he had got on Sunday after beating up that fat kid. He scanned the ground some more, empty through the craving for over-priced gastronomic slop and fixed his gaze on the pretty house in the corner. He smiled wryly. Secluded location, minimal security, prime real estate. Something you were likely to get on Location Location Location. Or Crimewatch. And he didn't watch poor makeover shows on Channel 4. After all, there was only one thing he was 'Craven' and that was a release of tension, and what better release than a bit of vandalism he thought. No one would be any the wiser. No one needed to know. So he discreetly, or as discreetly as you can do dressed in a lion costume walked towards the property formulating a plan.

Once he got near the cottage he ran, vaulting over the barrier and breaking down the door, the crowd oblivious to the crime that was taking place beneath them. He raced in and looked around at the scene of decadence around him. Every wall adorned with a Fulham FC pendant, the floors and walls a testament to south-west London pride. A pride he needed to destroy. He looked around again at the crowd fixated on the penalties and started to rip the house apart, vandalising everything in sight, tearing up memories and history with wanton abandon just to sate his rage and increase his focus. He went over to a desk and started ruffling through the drawers, some papers, envelopes, a foreign passport (but no British one) were all evident as he emptied them untidily on the floor. Then music came on over the tannoy and he felt the overwhelming urge to dance, his indoctrination of the scene as a cub taking over his rationality as if it was something he could not control. Yet he still felt the urge to destroy the place some more, which resulted in his ripping up of letters in time to the music because he was powerless to stop the influence it had over him.

Scared at the noise he was now making and the possibility he could be arrested, he panicked and ran out of the back door to the beat of a funky rhythm, his sense diverted and directing him away from the arena. Bemused and disorientated, he turned round and headed for the tunnel to get back into the ground, stealing a small buggy in the process and joyriding it through the corridors of the East Stand. Spying Terry he felt a twinge of compassion for him and picked him up as well, along with a bottle of vodka that he had conveniently spied lying around. He looked behind him and saw the owner of the buggy chasing him angrily, a camera in hand in the hope of recording the event in the hope of attaining money in a scene of judgement. Faster he rode, the vodka starting to cloud his senses somewhat as he darted down the tunnel and headed towards the freedom of the playing surface, hoping he would get away from all those who wanted a picture of him. It was at this moment that the crash happened. And the two mascots went flying, hitting the cold concrete of the road whilst the cameraman fled in the opposite direction, to be unaccounted for their actions. Blood streaming from their faces, the mascots lay there for a minute whilst everything was quiet and still, the emergency services called but still a distance away. Eventually they came and with precision cutting tools tried to free Terry from the confines of the buggy, which had crumpled and wrapped around his corpulent frame. Roary meanwhile was unconscious, and needed to be revived, which luckily he was in time for the second half of the bout. So was Terry and, with a shake of paws they agreed to continue the bout, although it was a more sedate affair than it may otherwise have been but with the lack of atmosphere in Craven Cottage, you couldn't really tell anyway.

Round two continued in the same vein as the first, Terry still feeling the dazed effects of the crash whilst the vodka had actually sharpened Roary's leonine instincts as if he were the seasoned alcoholic. Which of course he is, which sort of explains it. Blow after blow was again sent crashing towards the computer and, with Roary being slightly more direct yet still mysterious with it, it was only a matter of time before he got the breakthrough he deserved, particularly as the opposition was offering nothing whatsoever in return. Ten minutes in and this breakthrough came. It was a great move, with a dummy from the right to set up the left for a clean swift hook that left the computer in tatters and the screen fragmented. One nil to the lion. And then the adding machine with a few funky features came back into it somewhat, launching one or two admittedly weak shots towards the lion, which he absorbed easily. This lasted for about ten minutes until Roary, at the most stretched he had been all evening inadvertently pushed a button on Terry's keyboard, which resulted in the whole show between him and van der Saar being broadcast on Terry's screen. The bastard recorded it Roary thought, the anger welling up inside him. He's infringing on my image, violating my copyright and, most importantly, selling sexual material of me that is of a poorer standard to the official Roary standard. He looked around and got out his official copy of 'Roaring Lionesses 4' and addressed the crowd, hoping to win them all over and make them see nonsense. 'Remember folks' he said, 'only this badge makes it a rip-off,' he smiled inanely. Sorry, sorry, official' he quickly corrected himself, hoping little damage had been done, before turning back to the focus of his rage and starting to pummel the glorified television. Again and again he hit and once more he broke through, a more simple move this time but still as effective, leaving the computer to crash like so many have done before him. Five groggy minutes later and the whistle went for full time, which was greeted by Roary to raised fists in the air whilst his followers cheered his first victory of the season and the setting of the record straight. He left the ring to finish off his vodka, throwing half a bottle of isotonic juice at his hapless nemesis before stepping on him to show his domination. He was in for a good night tonight he thought. A bloody good night indeed.