I was (very briefly) on fire one Tuesday . . .

Four 180s in 22 minutes.

No one to witness it  . . . no one to congratulate me . . . no one . . . Millwall . . .

Only A Game? by Eamon Dunphy (Penguin Books 1976)

3 August

My birthday. I am twenty-eight; getting on, getting a tiny bit worried. This is going to be the big season. It has to be: there may not be many more. Twenty-eight — the age when insecurity like a slowly descending fog appears on the horizon. One is conscious of little things — the apprentices begin to seem absurdly young, you call them ‘son’ now, and yet it doesn’t seem so long since older players addressed you the same way. Players you played with or against are getting jobs as managers, or retiring. The manager begins to consult you more often. ‘What do you think of this and that?' It’s flattering, of course — you have grown up, but you are growing old, too, at least in football terms.

You talk more of babies, and not so much of birds. You begin to wonder what is coming from the Provident Fund, about a testimonial, sometimes at night about retirement — the end. How much longer will you spend your summers in this idyllic way, dreaming of glory? Of course, you reassure yourself that this is your prime. It’s a shock to realize how rapid the descent is from pinnacle to valley.

I have from time to time pondered on all of those fears, hut today I watched Harry Cripps, at thirty-two the oldest player on the staff, exuberant as ever and enjoying it all as if he was fifteen again. Harry is a unique yet strangely reassuring figure. A truly great professional, not particularly gifted, except for boundless enthusiasm and love for football and the life we lead. A seemingly simple, yet I find a tantalizing, complex figure. He is at once selfish, good-natured, devious and honest — but always lovable.

Hateland by Bernard O'Mahoney and Mick McGovern (Mainstream Publishing 2005)

The army seemed the least unsatisfactory alternative, although my friends laughed hysterically at the idea of me as a soldier. They didn't think I'd last five minutes in an environment where I had to take orders. The British Army was the first extreme right-wing organisation I ever joined. Patriotism, or rather a narrow, arrogant, Rule-Britannia, God-save-the-Queen jingoism was rammed down our throats at every opportunity. And, like the other far-right groups I later encountered, the forces of the Crown didn't seem to care too much about the presence of criminals in the ranks.

Plastic gangster

One for Reidski.

From Football365com website, a brilliantly funny pisstake of hoolies and their ilk that might have John King reaching for the phone to ring his solicitor.

"Work. Same old, same old. A warrior like me should not be caged. And definitely not as a Waste Management Support Co-ordinator in Lewisham Council. Phone rings. Pick it up.

"Ooo are ya? Ooo are ya? Ooo are ya?" I shout.

"Barry," says the voice. "It's Mr Stevens. Now what did we say about answering the phone in accordance with the guidelines laid down by HR in consultation with designated union representatives?"

"Sorry, Mr Stevens," I say.

"That's better Barry. Now can you please arrange for a member of the cleaning personnel team to go down to the lobby and change the waste paper basket on front desk?"

"Millwall! Millwall! Millwall!" I shout.

"No Barry. Waste paper management now. Millwall later," says Stevens. "Honestly Barry. A man of 48 really ought to be able to control himself." [READ ON . . . .]

From Old Hooligan: A Day In The Life.

Hat tip to 'Sweet FA' over at Urban 75.