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ROARY VERSUS ... CRYSTAL ALICE
Pundit's prediction: Eagles: majestic, beautiful, regal. And then we come to Crystal Alice. Yep, another mascot, another pun, and a pretty awful one come to that, Crystal Alice is the mascot equivalent of Iain Duncan Smith, dour, drab and doesn't punch at anywhere near the weight it ought to.
Indeed in a survey of twenty or so drunk people standing outside a pub on a Friday night, only 3 of them had ever heard of this bird, although in hindsight perhaps South London may not have been the best place to conduct the poll. Yet despite this, the well-known lie that Crystal Alice was the inspiration behind the Roy Chubby Brown cover of that 'Who the fuck is Alice?' song serves to underline the lack of appeal this motheaten specimin has. Indeed Crystal Alice is highly representive of the Palace team in general, which contains players no one has ever heard of but you would still be scared to meet if you catch them in a dark alley unawares. So a bit like what would happen if you mistook the word 'cottaging' for a brief look around a salubrious middle class toilet complex somewhere then.
Furthermore, and rather ironically, the featuring of the bird in a famous soft drink commercial some seven or eight years back has done little to raise its profile, although this may have had something to do with the manufacturers heading towards the territory of the implausable by introducing us to the bloke who claimed he was 'the performer inside the costume'. Honestly, how can anyone believe such scerillous propoganda?- it's a well-known fact that our mascots are living breathing entities that deserve our respect and adulation rather than slightly nerdy depressive pillocks who like dressing up in furry costumes because they have nothing better to do. And the further claim by said soft drinks firm that we should eat and sleep football was so ridiculous that it sounds like something Andy Townsend would say- in the tactics truck. Hence why the campaign was largely ignored.
However, just because no one has heard of this bird, it does not necessarily make it benign, although in all honesty it is that as well. Like any form of crystal, it is likely to shatter and fall apart easily, indeed just one drop (relative to a table usually) can often leave it fucked for the rest of the season, leaving little money to spend on repairs until well into the next year, by which time it is usually too late. This delay is largely due to a lack of insurance, which is ironic as the bird is sponsored by a major insurance company. Indeed it is this that could be employed against the novelty sparrow as this said company's logo is a dog, a dog that could easily maul the bird should it wish to. Now that's never mentioned on the adverts, is it? Thus all that needs to be done to take full advantage of this is to place a mirror in front of the bird and, because he'll see the dog on the logo on his chest, he will run away from himself all match long. So much like Julian Speroni in that respect then. Either that or Roary could just goad the dog somehow, although as it's a cartoon character, it is quite evidently not real. Furthermore, the mirror trick may also work in another way- to demonstrate how ridiculous 'the person (yeah, right)' in the eagle 'costume' looks, shaming him with his own level of twatness in front of everybody.
However further techniques can also be used to defeat the bird. Its impoverishment suggests that money could be an important commodity, a view that is supported when we consider her name, Crystal, which, second to Candice, sounds like one of the seedier call girls you can probably get on the streets of South London (note, Alice is merely her name on weekdays- cut?). Thus bunging her a couple of bags of bird seed and three drying bedsheets they can go and shit all over will probably do the trick. But if Roary doesn't want to resort to bribery then he should take heart in the fact that, although Crystal starts off strongly, like the real Crystal Palace, it tends to melt away, causing it to come crashing to the ground very early in the season. Thus despite last year's meterioric rise in preparations for an extravaganza festival at the end of last season, form would suggest that it will crumble down to earth again by the end of this one, possibly due to firey temprements or self-implosion. Furthermore, the chances of this eagle going far are about as likely as another example of her species, her ski-jumping half-brother, Eddie, so there really should be little for Roary to fear here.
And Roary could possibly have even more weapons in his arsenal- he may be able to use his tongue against Crystal as she appears to be nothing more than a bonbon with a silly head and novelty arms. Indeed this could be self-fulfilling as the sugar and additives he would ingest will make him hyper for the rest of the bout, giving him the energy required to pull off a victory. The other thing he could do is to flash a pillow in the direction of the bird to try and convince her that her closest family have been made into bedwear, thus making her inconsolable and an easy target to pick off. Either that or he could dress as a barber and attack Crystal's feathers, negating the possibility of her flying. But then this is largely immaterial as it is well known that Crystal cannot fly particularly high before falling clumsily back down to earth. Indeed this reflects Crystal's general impotence, which is so much so that Roary's major threat is actually on the bench, as the one thing that he must be careful of is not to catch a glimpse of Crystal's manager because if he does, like Medusa he will turn to stone, petrified at the sight of this warped troll in the dugout. This would make it an easier match for our feathered fiend but as long as our hero keeps his concentration, then a comfortable home win should be on the cards.
The match: After Roary's mid-week win the crowd was buzzing more than usual for this highly anticipated - well, okay, general inconvenience before we played 'proper' Premier league sides - bout between the lion and the unfancied eagle from south-east London. Indeed this was reflected by the reaction that greeted Roary as he strode into the stadium, a scantily clad lioness on each arm and a grin on his face so wide that Cherie Blair herself would be envious. He looked around at the crowd and unthreaded his muscular arms from the grasp of his girls, gently stroking their arses in the process, to express his appreciation for their encouragement and support. He then looked back at the girls and kissed both of them passionately, the caress of his fur on their skin exciting them in ways that they had never been excited before. As the amour continued the crowd cheered and started chanting '2-0 to the lion' and 'there's only one lion on Teesside, there's only one lion on Teesside' as if encouraging him to take it further in front of them. But Roary relented. Another passionate kiss later and he patted them gently on their behinds, his libido coming second to having to beat the eagle now put in front of him before another session with the ladies would ensue. He whispered something dirty into the ear of one of them and attempted a wink, which he couldn't do due to his eyes being rigid and set in place upon his face. His recipient giggled but walked away slightly disappointed, giddy in the promise of what the immediate future would bring whilst Roary started dancing to Pigbag, his usual warming up technique before an important bout. And then Alice walked out to a faint cheer coming from one corner of the stand. Roary looked across at her and glared menacingly. This is one bird he didn't want to see at this moment in time.
Despite the heroics of Roary at both Arsenal and Fulham, the crowd was somewhat subdued this week, expecting an inevitable leonine victory against his less accomplished opponent. Indeed the form would bare this out they thought, Alice not having any victories to her name whilst Roary had just attained his first, but the lion knew that this bird was a determined little pecker and could spring a few surprises during the course of the day. Indeed it was this unknown quantity that worried Roary - and indeed the writer of this article - as he did not know what to expect. This was particularly the case as someone in the dressing room had cruelly swapped the video of her previous performances with some hard core pornography, which merely exhausted Roary rather than actually improving his performance. Still, he wasn't complaining too much about it, despite it leaving him in a rather sticky situation. Particularly in relation to this bout. But as he saw his opponent applaud her own fans who had made the long journey north he felt an overwhelming bitterness coursing through his body, a desire to ensure that all the money and time they had spent getting here would be wasted by comprehensively defeating this glorified sparrow. And viewing her he saw a few ways he could do it, which somewhat allayed his fears. Plus he owed it to the crowd and to himself. After all he thought, no one likes a loser, particularly not the lionesses.
The bell rang, the crowd cheered then fell silent for large swathes of the match. Round one had auspiciously begun. And just like at Fulham on Wednesday, Roary was immediately on the offensive, trying to find an early breakthrough against the soaring eagle. Or at least she would have been soaring had she not been wearing a giant eagle costume which somewhat inhibited her attempts to get off the ground. However the flapping of her arms in a graceless and deluded fashion provided enough of a distraction for Roary to allow her to get some carefully placed punches in, although these were few and far between. Furthermore, her inability to dodge Roary's punches by adopting the advantage of flight, coupled with her general clumsiness when rooted to earth greatly limited her tactics, making her moves simple and direct rather than with any air of grace or style. Indeed she rued the bulky costume she was forced to wear as at present she was out of her depth and shitting herself greatly. She felt that such a situation could best be exploited by flight as she could behave like a common seagull or Leeds United supporter but alas she was rooted to the spot and had to accept everything the lion was throwing at her, which was significant to say the least. Yet despite this disadvantage she remained resolute throughout the first half and, as the whistle blew to signify its end, there was more than an element of relief coursing through the veins of her and her fans. Meanwhile frustration was starting to creep into the minds of the home lion and his supporters, which was something Alice released she could capitalise upon in the second half. She was still thinking this as she disappeared up the tunnel for her halftime refreshment of Trill mix and a quick crap on an old newspaper, perhaps coupled with a preen and an addition of lip gloss in her small tacky plastic mirror that hung in her dressing cage. Roary meanwhile connected up with his adoring lions and indulged in a bit of playtime fun in an attempt to relieve stress and obtain greater focus. However all that happened was his manager admonishing him for not being professional enough, banning his lady friends from the (state-of-un-)dressing room until the end of the bout. Roary stormed off in a huff, angry and on edge.
Confused, he sat in the tunnel and looked out at the crowd, pangs of loneliness enveloping his swollen heart, swollen equally in love and hate, the balance of life, the concoction of all feeling. Thirty thousand people and ever so lonely he thought to himself as images of decadence and sin flashed through his perverted mind like an epileptic peepshow, images that he craved and images that were near but not near enough to grab and take at this moment in time. Sombrely he stood up, his heart haemorrhaging frustration, his mind bypassing sense as he made his way back to the dressing room to make peace with his manager. Yet as he approached, he looked up and spied one of his friends come out of Alice's cage. He wiped his eyes in an ever so cliched way and looked again, staring intently into the ether. He was greeted by a giddy smile, a smile that dropped clumsily to a frown as she acknowledged her observer. It was her darkest fear. It was also his. In heartbroken disbelief Roary strode forward, hoping the obvious was not actually the case yet fearing in honesty that it probably was. His first lady friend stood aside in fear as Roary approached, unsure as to what the unpredictable lion would do when he found out the truth. He grabbed hold of the door and tore it open in anger, its frame rattling his frustration, broadcasting his pain to all those who would listen. He looked at the scene of debauchery borne out in front of him and turned to leave, tears of masculinity streaming down his matted face, as his friends shouted after him, begging for his forgiveness. He merely ignored them as he entered his dressing room and prepared for the final round, his pain palpable in his gait, empty and lonely. And desperate for revenge.
He felt like this as he emerged for the second half and was determined to use it to his advantage. He strode past the 'celebrity' the club got in to read the Boro Jackpot Numbers and punched him square on the jaw in the process, causing him to reel backwards clumsily. The crowd cheered at the unexpected performance whilst Mark Page tried to restrain Roary and ended up taking a blow himself. The crowd cheered even louder. Then the lion strode up to the ring and stood face to face with Alice who had emerged a few minutes earlier, bitter fury cascading from his head and boring holes into the bundle of eiderdown that was stood in front of him. He couldn't wait for the bell to ring, he couldn't wait for the chance to exonerate his demons and release his pain in beautiful orgasms of cascading violence. He couldn't wait for the half to begin, for the action to commence And eventually and inevitably, it did.
Round two and Alice, increased in confidence after pulling two fit lionesses in the half time interval - it was better than Trill mix she thought- as well as holding the favourite to a respectable draw in the first half, realised that this was now the time she had to start fighting. Roary meanwhile, despite his anger lacked the focus to do much about it and thus it was the eagle that started the brighter of the two, aiming a few punches at the distraught lion. In a panic Roary tried to fight back but his clumsiness paid its price, the scene of debauchery and betrayal he had inadvertently stumbled upon reverberating around his head like a mischievous gremlin determined to guarantee that he always lost out. In frustration he tripped the eagle up and immediately the referee pointed for a penalty punch. Roary groaned as he got himself in position, his arms outstretched in emotional crucifixion as he felt the nails being driven one by one into his heart. Alice lined up at the pathetic creature that was splayed out before her in abject disdain, sympathy slight, empathy nil as she clenched her wing and struck the weak as he was down. He went down further as he collapsed to the canvas twitching languidly yet in the darkest of entrapments, the blue summer sky greying in his heart as all life was slowly being sucked from within him. The away fans taunted, the home fans looked worried as Roary slowly raised himself to his feet and looked defeated already, despite there being another thirty minutes of the battle remaining. He looked around as he tried to regain his composure, his corpus touched to the bone by the sympathetic support being proffered by his fans, his believers. He had to do it for them he thought, and he had to do it to get his harem back. After all, if they believed in him then why couldn't he believe in himself? And furthermore, nobody likes a loser he thought. And today he was determined that he wasn't going to be that loser.
With a new found drive, he was now on the offensive and started to pen Alice further back towards the guide ropes until she had nowhere else to go. He stared intently at her, his loveable face masking the veneer of hatred that was caked liberally beneath, his fists aiming calculatingly and ferociously at the distressed bird. Time and time again he hit, hoping that the breakthrough would be forthcoming, that he would finally dissolve her defensives and score a point of his own. But in the end, it required a little bit of luck as around ten minutes after her scoring, he felt his shorts start to fall down and was taken aback, fearing a repeat of the Arsenal humiliation the previous week. Distracted he tried to pull his pants back up but of course this gave Alice an opportunity to launch an attack of her own. However, she herself was distracted due to her own hunger. This was because due to her half time adventures she had left the Trill mix in her cage uneaten, a situation that she was now regretting as she was becoming more lethargic and fixated on food. And in looking down towards Roary's increasingly exposed midriff, she thought she spied a worm and ducked down to try and grab it. It was here that Roary seized his opportunity, taking a step back and smashing both fists down on the back of her head, causing her to lose balance and come crashing down. There was an audible squeal of pain as she landed face first on the canvas, her beak disappearing into her own face due to the power of the force. Blood trickled from the wound as Roary pulled up his wayward shorts and punched the air with delight. His penis had saved the day. Hooray for his penis! Meanwhile a groggy Alice swooned her way upright and continued with the fight despite her painful and humiliating injury.
A further five minutes in and Roary was still in the ascendancy. Desperate, Alice looked over to her boss for encouragement and clicked her wing. Suddenly eleven troll beasts emerged from the tunnel at the whim of Dowie, the Master Troll, and started to bear down on Roary who looked on in concerned bemusement. The referee looked on at the hoard of the damned (to the Coca Cola Championship) that were heading their way and immediately held up his red card and a pencil in an attempt to stop them. And this seemed to work as on seeing the pencil they reflected on what happened to many of their brethren in the pixie genocide of 1997-9 when many of them were forced to accept pencils up their arses as punishment for merely being small. Many blamed the big corporations, particularly those who made Wheetos, who often gave their pencil end things away as an incentive to buy more chocolate flavoured cardboard. Indeed many could still not bear to be in the same room as a Wheeto, which often made them prone to bouts of irrationality or deep anxiety. Thus on seeing the most bitter sword of all, they all turned round and trudged back up the tunnel, their arse cheeks clenched tightly to prevent any insertion, whilst the Master Troll himself screwed his face up even more, if such a thing was possible in reaction to the setback. For now, all he had was Alice. And Alice was starting to fail him.
Another five minutes and Roary was still diligently pummelling the hapless bird over and over again, hoping she would concede something, anything to prove to him that he was still top lion in the north-east, if not the country. After all, between a magpie and a black cat, it wouldn't be hard to be top lion in the north-east. Indeed it wouldn't be hard to be top with that standard of opposition come to think of it. But with hatred still at the forefront of his mind, he felt the overwhelming desire to despatch this pillow with legs as quickly and as efficiently as he could. But without a clay pigeon shooting thingy or an air rifle it would be difficult he thought. Until she gifted victory to him on a plate. As with one illegal move, he was awarded a free punch. This is not as potent as a penalty punch due to the allowance of the opposing combatant to defend themselves from being knocked down, unlike in a penalty punch where you get hit with no defence and if you go down you concede and if you don't, play continues. But a handy concession nonetheless. And Roary made the most of it. Alice looked down to tie her bootlace and in that split second, Roary saw his opportunity. Swinging gracefully round he rotated his whole body and focussed it into one simple action, every sinew aching hate exuding through one clenched fist that was aimed squarely for the right side of her face. He made contact and she fell, cascading down to the cold dark earth like she had made him metaphorically feel a mere twenty minutes earlier. The crowd cheered, the lion was vindicated. He was going to win this he thought. They'd be coming back to him, and coming back to him crawling. He looked down at the twitching lifeless bird in front of him and spat his derision. His pain exorcised he relaxed and continued his prowess, almost adding a third late on but it didn't really matter. It was the victory that was important and, when the final whistle went, he kicked his exhausted and prostrate opponent in complete revulsion as he strode determinedly out of the ring, point proven, demons released. He headed towards the tunnel and brushed off the advancing sluts of lionesses. He had bigger fish to fry he thought than those two sycophants. He knew after that exegesis he could have any lion in Middlesbrough - which admittedly is not many- and he was determined to take full advantage of his new found glory. Full advantage indeed he thought as he made his way towards The Bongo Club.
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