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Cup Memories And Royal Jubblies

Johnny Pundit's World Of Football

Johnny Pundit: Cup legend
Johnny Pundit: Cup legend
Trautmann: Take that Fritz
Trautmann: Take that Fritz
Bubbly jubblies
Bubbly jubblies
Funny old thing, Football. For instance, it being Cup Final week, I was musing over my own involvement in that august competition with Henry Ham and Fothergill over a cup of char Thursday last in The Mixed Metaphor, the pundits' favourite watering hole.

Henry, as you may know, has just fallen on his feet — got a new role as football correspondent for the Hot Bunnies Channel.

"You were a veritable swan on the right wing, I recall, Johnny?" said Henry,

"I was more a central defender, actually," I corrected.

"Really?" frowned Henry. "Seem to recall you dazzling people with your ball skills in that cup final named after you. No?"

"That was Stanley Matthews," Fothergill explained. "In the Matthews Final."

"Ah," said Henry, nodding sagely. "Lucky he played, then, if they'd gone and called it that. Would have been a frightful waste otherwise. But you did play in a Cup Final, didn't you?"

"Two, actually. 1956 and 1958."

"Proud memories, I'll wager."
For you, the Final is over
Not really, no. Y'see, as Missus Pundit and her perpetual limp will attest, I have a clumsy, unthinking streak to my otherwise urbane and silky character. All I remember of the 1956 final is our winning a corner and standing next to the opposing goalie — name of Troutman or some such. As the ball floated over he shouted out 'Achtung!' Well, you don't forget commando training overnight; quick as a flash I snapped his neck, before meeting the ball with a firm crack (missed the bally goal, think the wartime memories must have put me off). All a bit embarrassing, really; though he was game enough to play on. Probably imagined the Maine Road branch of the Gestapo would make heem an offer he couldn't refuse if he didn't, or some such.
Bobby dazzlers

As for 1958, well, at least I was on the winning side, though that in itself was the cause of a little local difficulty. You've got to understand, gentle reader, that it was a rougher game then, and there was none of this women's lib. So really most of us would have thought nothing of celebrating a Cup Final victory by bursting a magnum of champers over the bobby dazzlers of the nearest willing young lady, and imbibing the drink of gentlemen from her pearl-white skin whilst blowing raspberries on her d├ęcolletage to the tune of The Dambusters. After all, a young man must have his fancy. It was only afterwards that my team-mates suggested that the royal box was not the best place to start the celebrations, and that our royal sovereign's proud bubblies were not, perhaps, the best place for the champagne. Heigh ho: at least I can say that to me, she's rather more than just a head on stamp.

I was reminded of my occasional clumsiness on the field the other day at a press conference at Old Trafford. I stepped back to avoid some of the spittle issuing from Sir Alex's mouth and trod on some young fellah's toes. Wayne Mooney, or some such. Ah well; he didn't look like he was going anywhere anyway.

Till next time,

Johnny Pundit

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