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ROARY VERSUS ... BEAU BRUMMIE
Pundit’s prediction: Scruffy, worn (like the costume to think of it), and only marginally more attractive than Mikkel Forsell, it is quite clear that Beau is a dog with attitude and this is exactly why the bitch needs to be put down in the most humiliating manner possible. And I thought that this was meant to be non-partisan?
This is almost as bad as a Lawro prediction on a Liverpool match. You’re fired, you moustachioed-faced walrus with a Scouser fixation!. And with Roary on his moth-eaten tail, fresh from a two-week break and two pivotal triumphs, there is no reason why the dog from the Brum cannot be cleanly neutered by our leonine pal. Or even messily neutered come to think of it, after all performance doesn’t really matter as long as the result is right, does it?
But Beau has the capability to provide Roary with one of his toughest challenges yet as he can alter his tactics to outfox the opposition. His bark however is often considerably worse than his bite, with little to show for his efforts beyond a pathetic shower of dribble occupying the playing surface. One tactic Roary could employ in an attempt to devour him would be to, erm, try and devour him as his head clearly represents an over-sized withered pear with two ugly caterpillars sticking out of the top of it. So very much like Joan Rivers in that respect then. However in attempting to do this one must be careful not to succumb to the rabies that is emanating from the sides of his mouth, a disease that it was believed he contracted from a certain long haired blond player who went under the moniker of Savage. Like that player however, this contraction is largely benign and is often just a mere irritation that afflicts the less cool characters on the FMF circuit so Roary really should have nothing to worry about. Unless the ghost of Danny Mills has failed to be exorcised by his personal trainer and witch doctor of course.
One threat that Roary must be aware of in his opponent’s arsenal is the move known as the Emile Heskey stutter, which often damply climaxes with the going down of Beau in the vicinity of his opponent’s leg. From this point in the proceedings however, Beau differs from the lumbering striker because he often comes back up again with the minimum of fuss. Then he goes back down, often having problems staying in a fixed position, mirroring his club’s metaphorical humping of the table over successive seasons. This results in a guaranteed increase in confidence over a catastrophic mess, which can be quite off-putting for all those concerned and is something of which Roary must be acutely aware if he is going to win this match. This stage in the confidence process is famously known as the Steve Bruce, as in defining off-putting you really have to look no further than this Steve McClaren clone. Indeed his unctuous grin is one parodied by Beau himself and is often used as a purgative to devastating effect, as the Norwich City canaries demonstrated when their vomit flecked shirts were used in this season’s colour chart for the club’s home strip. This process however is often more annoying than threatening although having a rabid dog growling towards your genitals is not my idea of fun, unless of course you’ve paid fifty quid for the privilege. Indeed, when coupled with another similarity between Beau and Bruce, a scatological obsession that has led the latter having purchased such shit as Heskey and Muzzy Izzet, the level of annoying distraction this pooch possesses is extremely high. It is however, his obsession for sniffing his opponent’s rear that is often the most humiliating experience any opposition has to go under, particularly as it mirrors Birmingham City’s own rear- its defence- which does have a disturbingly similar odour.
Despite all this Beau does have some major weaknesses. Being built like Emile Heskey, he does have a remarkable amount of pace but this only tends to last for about three seconds before he breaks out in a sweat and starts to collapse. So the best tactic for Roary to employ against him would be to stand in the corner of the ring opposite Beau and goad him into running towards him as by the time he gets to the halfway point he will no doubt have collapsed in exhaustion. Furthermore it is commonly known that this dog, like Darren Anderton, has a major affliction called laziness, which often results in his failing to turn up to the majority of his matches. On other occasions however he is genuinely sick and is often seen in the humiliating position of handing in a sick note to the referee written by his mummy, the alpha bitch. Indeed this dependence is so strong, as demonstrated by her sowing of his name into all his Birmingham City branded clothing that Roary would be well advised to steer clear of this personal subject should he ire the dog into fighting more strongly. Indeed, how the word ‘beau’ could ever be used to describe that, beyond mere looks is beyond the comprehension of most of us but then love is blind as they say, and you can’t see much in a furry costume I suppose…
However the strongest tactic to employ against Beau is the same one that can be used against the delusional Savage, merely throwing a stick or some other object for the delusional creature to chase. Furthermore, being a dog he (that’s Beau, not Savage) is also susceptible to bowls of Pedigree Chum, ‘walkies’ or licking his own genitals so if Roary can smear dog food on Beau’s genitals or tether him up to the side of the ring with his own industrial strength dog collar and leash then I am sure an easy victory will prevail for the home lion.
The match: Bloated, corpulent and looking painfully idiotic in his oversized dog coat (sponsored by Auto Windshields), Steve Bruce walks out to the sounds of rapturous applause from the Brummie deluded, followed meekly by the jaundiced dandy Brummie equivalent of Lawrence Llewellyn Bowen (only more attractive), Beau.
The latter walks to the dugout and takes a seat whilst Bruce applauds each section of the crowd in turn, completely oblivious to the fifteen stone of pure manly lion bearing down on him from behind. The former laps up the adulation as Roary looks at the cathedral - well okay, small parish church in some incestuous Black Country village - before him, unaware that the dozy Mancunian has performed his best impression of a menopausal old woman determined to block everyone's path whilst she discerns where the discounted granny knickers are amidst the Boxing Day sales.
Roary stares at his fans on the left, all shouting 'Roary Lion' to the tune of 'Mark Viduka' and clapping inanely like a pensioner at a Bruce Forsyth concert. He looks up at the roof of the stand at the strip lighting that adorns the carcass of this Midlands dump and reminisces. Reminisces of his days at the polytechnic, of all those times he stared at similar lighting, on his back and in love. Or at least in love for a handful of minutes anyway. And often a handful is all it took.
The Collision
A wry smile forms across his furry face as he remembers the good times, completely oblivious to the crowd warning him of the collision impending. It was an unsettling combination- a horny lion with a point to prove and an overrated manager on an ego boost, lapping up all the milk these saggy deflated tits were throwing at him.
The shouts of 'man on' - or at least 'lion on', which after all is far less snappy so no wonder it didn't work - went unheeded and, like with Emile Heskey and the ground after one of his five second 'surging' runs, the collision was unavoidable.
Breaths were held, sniggers stifled as the two berks made contact, Roary deflecting off Bruce's ego and puncturing it severely. They both came crashing to the floor, lion and man in perfect harmony, forming a crumpled heap of flayed skin and fur.
Bruce groped around trying to dissociate himself from the amorous lion whilst Roary tried to get off the tiresome gobshite as quickly as possible, for this was most undignified and he was all manly lion dammit, despite that one dalliance in his youth. And that was all behind him. Particularly after Roary had eaten him. After all, feelings for an antelope when you're a carnivorous badass are never good. But what a nice ass he thought. What a bloody nice ass.
For Bruce the world was a cornucopia of yellow as the scraping of synthetic material embedded rashes upon his already reddening face. He grabbed around trying to remove himself from this embarrassing scene and pulled the long hair of Roary's mane in the process. Reassured, he turned round slightly and started whispering urgently into his ear. 'Get them today Robbie, get them. They have no Boateng; they have no hope. A bit like your Wales career come to think of it.
We're crap, we know that. Heskey and Yorke, what was I thinking? But Christmas time is the season for you lot, two turkeys, Clinton - to deliver all those cards for us - and you Robbie, Robbie the Reindeer. Pull your weight Robbie, I'll give you a bushel of hey as a reward. I know you're crap, we all know that, but pick up a booking, aye, just for old Brucie. Because the Price is Right Robbie. Well okay, it's often over-inflated with me, but hey, tonight Matthew I want to be... a winner. C'mon Robbie I have faith in you. Clatter the bastards. I'll make it worth your while...'
Roary looked on in bemusement, feeling such knowledge of the machinations of a club manager may have been handy to know had it not been those of Bruce. But hey, if his boss respected him then he'd better listen, even if that respect was all rhetoric.
'And you know Robbie I appreciate you even if everyone else reviles you. You're pivotal to the squad.' he continued his head turning round to address the snarling lion head on. Bruce's face sank as he realised his mistake, more so as Roary's rabid canines ducked down to connect with the manager's neck, like a vampire to his pray, like a vicar to his congregation. 'Oh, oh, sorry my mistake Robbie. You have no red nose; you're not a reindeer. You can't be. Here let me help you...'
And with that Bruce's semi-buried left arm rose above that of the lion and he clocked him one straight on the snout, forcing Roary sideways and off the breathless twitching manager. Roary looked up to the Midland's sky and caught sight of the strip lights again, breathless, sweating and in desperate need of a drink. It was like that night all over again he thought. It was like deja-vous. Except 850,000 people saw that episode on video rather than 30,000 in a football stadium.
Still he thought as he watched Bruce stand up, brush down his coat and walk to the dugout attempting to look dignified (with THAT nose?), where there's an audience there's always cash. And when there is athleticism matched only by debauched sex then there are gallons of semen too. Along with money. Long live the King! The King of the Jungle that is.
Searching for the Bitch of Brum
After the farce that was the pre-match entertainment, Roary picked himself up and wanted to get started quickly, hoping that his little bout of wrestling with the manager of one of the most average clubs in the league would provide the perfect warm up to the bout ahead. Standing up he scoured the dugout for the dog but with little success, the only thing being discovered was a frosty faced tart in row D and one of his ex-lionesses sitting in the crowd, arms folded looking distinctly unimpressed. But God was she still attractive. He would certainly have to look into the possibly of halftime entertainment with her he thought.
But from one bitch to another, he felt he should return to the job in hand and try to find the neutered Chihuahua who had gone off for walkies on his own. Hopefully under a bus, he thought to himself. Scouring around he was perplexed to how a luminous yellow dog could just disappear in the middle of a football stadium before remembering that the lumbering chunky fool Emile Heskey performed this trick week in week out on the pitch.
Roary looked around at his boss and shrugged his shoulders in submission. McClaren looked back, eyes boring deep into the lion's visage as if disappointed at the lack of resourcefulness his protégé was demonstrating. Roary looked back, more humiliated than when he was rolling around on the floor making grass with Bruce. Or something like that anyway. McClaren continued to stare, a grin starting to crack through the harsh veneer of his face as the enlightenment of his mind infected its way like rabies through the dog population.
Roary stared back, bemused, whilst McClaren pulled out a box of Winalot from behind his back and shook it in a mischievous way that you only see in adverts or in sex clubs. He also produced the Boro Dog Bowl (a snip- available at all good Boro Retail outlets- make sure your bitch knows which team is the right team to support, particularly if they are middle class and are earning enough to afford a £30 ticket every other week for the Lifeless Stand Lower) and tore open the packet, proffering both to Roary. Roary looked back and understood, a wry grin spreading across his face- or at least this is what would have happened had he not had it botoxed when he was younger- for now he was very much a one-expression lion.
Yet it was at that very instant that Roary spied the wayward dog and, grabbing the scissors that McClaren had brought to dissociate the shin pads from the straps that keep them held, as well as in the hope he would have time to do his nails as well, he edged towards his nemesis.
He looked up as he approached; staring at the pendulous boxing glove that was dangling in an ungainly fashion between his legs and started snipping the scissors furiously. Closer and closer he came, his eyes transfixed on the decadent poodle that was strutting on all fours as a member of the public who at that very moment was trying to save shots being fired towards her by one of the Birmingham players.
It was at this point that things became more farcical as at that very moment Beau cocked his leg up against the post and decided to give it his own unique coat of paint. The bloke looked down at the dog and recoiled in horror as another shot came in. Unguarded he dived in an attempt to save it, unfortunately diving in the wrong direction, towards the dog.
The next few seconds were uncomfortable to watch as the bloke got liberally splashed with the fermented Newky Broon that was being emitted from the dog's bladder whilst Beau turned round himself and looked at Roary in a threatening way. It was at this point that Roary himself recoiled, realising that Beau reminded him of someone but someone he couldn't yet place in his mind. The Birmingham mascot's leg went down and the referee saw that as an excuse to start the bout, largely because it was getting close to three o'clock and more importantly because this report is already nearing three pages long. These referees are so considerate aren't they?
The Actual Bout (as in about bloody time)
Round one began after the obligatory three-year break from Sky, whose bosses are quite relieved that they didn't broadcast the inappropriate golden shower that had just taken place on the goal line. After all that was a story for one of Murdoch's sister media outlets surely...
Roary broke out of the blocks quickly, oozing confidence after the recent run of form that had consolidated his position as one of the most competent mascots outside of the 'top three', who get all the funding and rimming that the media can muster. So it's hardly a fair comparison really.
First punch in and it had its desired effect, a straight attack to the midriff, a sucker punch. Beau stumbled back, his feet getting tangled up due to the rakish angle of his right leg, which caused his downfall. Meanwhile Roary instinctively stuck his right leg out too, coming dangerously close to the dog on his way down but he realised it was unnecessary as the dog had effectively contributed to his own failure.
He raised his arm to celebrate but it was a celebration too early as the flag of the assistant who deemed the move to be illegal halted it. Roary couldn't understand why but he didn't protest. He couldn't be bothered. He needed to concentrate; he needed to lose his impetuous streak. That's what his psychologist said. Before he hit him. Now it was time for that to pay dividends. Now was the time to step up the attack. Unfortunately Beau thought this also. And it was to be him who would make the first decisive move.
It was route-one stuff really but Roary was distracted. He still couldn't remember who the hell he looked like and it was bothering him. In fact it was consuming him. A punch was launched from the guy ropes at the back, long and towards Roary with little hope of catching him off-guard under normal circumstances. Or at least that was what the crowd thought but, as Roary waited to shrug off the punch, the luminous scar that was the strip lighting scorched into his eyes and he inexplicably, yet instinctively, ducked.
The punch went sailing over his head but he did not anticipate the right hook that was too follow, perfectly timed, perfectly taken and straight into the side of his stomach. He nearly managed to remain standing but there was no chance really as he fainted ungraciously to the matting below. The crowd cheered, Beau celebrated and Roary fell sick on the floor. It was going to be a long afternoon.
It was at this point, looking up at the blubbering jaundiced unsanitary creature that was dancing above him that his mind clicked and he realised who it was, who he reminded him of. The realisation hit Roary with ferocious power, almost as powerful as Sam Allardyce could hit if you ever irked him - but obviously a lot harder than his inept excuse of a side - as he realised the striking similarity between Beau and Big Sam.
It was the jowls that did it he thought, the constant miserable expression, the feeling of hopelessness, the feeling of defeat and the constant air that life could be so much better if they were elsewhere. Plus Beau liked to moan a lot and make excuses. And was about as charismatic as a spanner. Or something like that anyway.
He looked at the strip lights again and cursed them. But at least he had the answer to the problem that had been plaguing him. Now he could focus, could concentrate on his shape as he had been falling apart over the previous minutes. Particularly down his right hand side, where he had been exposed numerous times before.
He cursed his fashion designer for making kits with slits on the right and said to himself he was going to get a new kit man to sort himself out. Meanwhile he thought he just had to get on with the job the best he can. He didn't bargain on another distraction.
For amid his prostration a ball of wool was thrown at him from the crowd, a ball of wool that Roary comfortably caught and started to play with, unable to override his fundamental feline instincts. His concentration shot, his shape destroyed, he lay on his back flicking the wool from paw to paw in reckless abandon, like a child with a new toy, mystified and in wonder of such simplicity.
His tongue lolled out, his eyes bright, he kept doing this for the remainder of the half somehow managing to dodge the punches that were raining in from Beau left right and centre. The crowd pointed and laughed, yet melted into a collective feeling of Christmas warmth at seeing the taming of such a ferocious creature whilst, like the ball of wool, Roary's shape got increasingly worse as the half went on.
So beautiful, so innocent, the abrasive air evaporated and he was exposed for what he was, a desperate, lonely child, and an adorably sweet one at that. He was so close to holding out though when, at the death, Beau finally broke through the harmless veneer that only synthetic fur could advertise.
It was a well-punctured move that caused Roary to drop his beloved ball of wool and add another point to the dog's total. Roary looked up at the scary Allardyce man coming down, threatening to engulf him amidst his corpulent frame. He turned away in child-like fear and spied his wool in the distance, bedraggled, redundant, alone. He started crying, tears of loneliness streaming down his face, matting his fur, getting entangled like the toy he had just had so cruelly removed from him.
He felt a physical pain in his chest but that was nothing compared to the excruciating mental ordeal that he was now enduring. He tried to turn around and claw his grail back but he failed, unable to wrestle the crushing brute from above him. At this moment, the whistle blew for half time and the crowd cheered, saluting Beau who was strutting around like a dog who had just been told he was to become a stud for the rest of his life.
Roary meanwhile burst into tears and stormed down the tunnel, taking his prize away with him. His composure had evaporated, all hope denied. It was to continue through the second half and as he left the field after a distressing afternoon, after being stuffed like Heskey, the turkey for all year round, he vowed that maybe Bruce's tactics did leave something to be desired.
Perhaps he did have a point. Because he had been Savaged today and he knew it. And that was what hurt the most. That and the wool incident. And he would never forgive. He would never forget.
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