Johnny Pundit’s World Of Football

He thinks its the 1950s

The ranking Johnny P

A.E. Ramsey: About to get hit with pie

Missus P: Mutton dressed as lamb

A hunk of hot meat and a dab of foie gras

Funny old thing, Football. For instance, last Tuesday had a pal around for dinner: Fothergill, football correspondent for The Light Programme. Tall skinny fellah he is - big specs, bit earnest, bit of a disappointed air. Looks like an owl trying to return some socks on the only day the Sock Department's closed, if you know what I mean.

Missus Pundit stuck another slab of boiled mutton in the pot and we spent a comfortable evening chewing the fat, in one sense or another.

Meat injection

Subject of discussion was food at football grounds. Now, I'm no stranger to innovation; in fact, there's a camp bed in the spare room here at Pundit Towers for innovation whenever it wants to stay. And it's not as if I don't like foreign food; like many right-thinking people, I have a lot of time for the Bourbon biscuit. But there are some traditions that, like wind, are not meant to be broken. 'Listen, Fothergill,' I said, bracing myself against the broccoli Missus Pundit was bringing in, battered and bruised, from the kitchen, 'Listen, football's all about gap-toothed oiks in flat caps like mushrooms gibbering over pies which taste like old feet. Always has been, always will be. You can stuff Roy Keane and his prawn sandwiches.' My blood was up, as a man's often will be with a hunk of hot meat in their mouths.

Pies don't kill

'No no,' Fothergill demurred, 'If football's like drama, why can't football stadia be like the theatre, with quality food to match?' I snorted my best derisory snort. 'Fothergill, unless it makes a good missile and can fetch the opposing centre forward a good 'un on the back of his bonce, what's the bally point? Some of the pies at White Hart Lane could fell an ox at ten paces. Look a bit silly trying to brain someone on the opposing team with a dab of foie gras and a piquant sauce.'

Any old...

Which must have been pretty convincing, as he gave up then. 'I love your wife's food,' he said. 'She cooks with such irony.' My wife probably thinks irony is the stuff they make her saucepans out of; I let it pass. 'Any more of this delicious e.coli, Missus P?' slobbered Fothergill, indicating the broken green weeds on his plate. Never a truer word, I thought. 'Lovely food, by the way.' No accounting for taste, is there?

Till next time,

Toodle-oo,

Johnny Pundit