A Bowl Of Cold Custard



Fothergill looks forward to the new year

Pundit: Hot thighs
Pundit: Hot thighs
Fothers: Crushing sense of inevitability
Fothers: Crushing sense of inevitability
Allardyce: Transparent
Allardyce: Transparent
Funny old thing, Football. For instance, 2009.
A pint of wallop
Pundit's off for the festive season — caravanning in Weston-super-Mare, I gather - so it's Fothergill here, attempting to fill the pipesmoke-scented space vacated by Pundit. When I asked him what I should write — sharing a pint of wallop in The Mixed Metaphor, the pundits' watering hole in London's fashionable Soho — Pundit simply said: 'Oh, just do what I do — knock off some old tosh, no beggar ever reads it apart from the Editor, and he's half-cut on brandy and Tizer most of the time.'
Crushing
Eschewing such cynical advice, I elected to produce instead 'Fothergill's predictions for 2009.' All of the following come served with a crushing sense of inevitability:

1. Sam Allardyce to turn round Blackburn Rovers, and then be linked with a number of bigger clubs, despite transparently being a capable manager of medium-sized teams only

2. Newcastle United to be taken over, sold, taken over again, and sold again, with Kevin Keegan musing aloud that he might consider coming back with each and every sale and purchase

3. Players and managers to keep moaning at referees about their decisions even though the number of referees who have changed their minds as a result of such direct appeals, in over 120 years of the game, is exactly nil

4. Liverpool to miss out (again)

5. Pundit to wibble on about all the above, with all the insight and wit of a bowl of cold custard — along with every other lame hack, rent-a-mouth and retired former player who didn't have the wit to save for their retirement, but are willing to trade their woeful ignorance for the media's hard cash.
Meat Paste
Don't know about you, but I can't wait. Still, it could be worse — you could be Pundit, cradling a hot thermos between your thighs in the Hillman Imp, peering through the windscreen at the seafront as the wind whips up, and Mrs P belches furiously after too many meat paste sandwiches.

Happy New Year,

Fothergill, heartily relieved never to confused with…
Johnny Pundit

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