Dulwich Hamlet 2, Leiston 3 (I think…)

To Transpontine del Curva! …on Saturday afternoon for another FUN ride of the pink ‘n’ blue liquid bubble of uncertainty.

Careful it don’t burst, Comrades.

POP!

There’s no knowing down at Dulwich (a) who the opposition is and (b) what the final score actually is. I have succeeded on cocking up on both counts so far this season. They don’t call them Crap Match Reports for nothing.

Dulwich meanwhile are doing their bloody best to make a cock up of reaching the play-offs.

That’s a little harsh.

Promotion and mid-table soul-searching would have suited most of The Rabble at the start of the season. To be top of the Ryman Premier at the turn of the year was like finding that the UGLIES had gatecrashed the school Prom and started snogging the Prom Queen.

And whaddya know - the Prom Queens of the Ryman Premier rather enjoy our tongues. We’ve had nothing but positive praise for our tonsil teasing efforts.

It just goes to prove that all this #ForFutureFootball lark is much than simply a banner on the back of an old bed sheet.

Don’t dream it, be it, etc.

Oh Lordy.

And so on Saturday afternoon I dreamt that I didn’t arrive fashionably late, and that I didn’t walk past the away end half-dozen just as they were celebrating an unlikely 1-0 lead.

Dreams can come true,

Look at me babe, pink and blue.

…or something.

I made my way down to The Rabble following a charming chat with Maudsely Man (Wot No Handbag?) and a gentle stroking of the Dulwich giraffe.

Betcha the match day experience down at Stamford Bridge doesn’t involve this.

The squeaky bum clenching was soon released with the euphoria of a Dulwich eqaliser. The goal celebration reminded me of the time I was made redundant at the start of the lovely lido season with a six month payment up front.

FUCK.

Caught up in the centre of all of this jouissance was yer man @vornstyle, who appears to have morphed over the course of the season from a glorious Transpontine guttersnipe into a glam rock vision of, um, Wolfgang Moneypenny.

Forget the Fifth Generation of Rock ‘n’ Roll: this is the first generation of #ForFutureFootball.

And so where to next?

Peeing my pink ‘n’ blue pants as Dulwich scored a second.

“Keeper! Why are you wearing an ironing board cover?”

…was as equally cutting as it was accurate.

They use to play on Brillo pad pitches, Comrades.

This is Fast Forward Football. It’s not so much the attacking pace of Dulwich, but just the relative speed which time passes during these pink ‘n’ blue moments of release.

Was it really half time? And why the chuffers was I wearing a bloody Notts County badge?

Just RIDE that pink ‘n’ blue liquid bubble, Jase.

A wander down to the Car Wash End and the ritual began of re-hanging the pink ‘n’ blue battlements. It’s like Washing Day down at the Dulwich as The Rabble get out the pegs and put out the pink ‘n’ blue laundry to dry.

A lovely, lovely catch up with Lido Howard confirmed my theory that Curva del Transpontine has become the central point that is holding all of this CRAZY South of the River ramblings together.

Everywhere I look seems to be a reminder of my past two decades of Transpontine living. It’s all contemporary as well - school kids from the day job are now coming through the ranks as Dulwich regulars.

Buckfast? Me Sir? On a non-school day?

Fast Forward Football soon became Shade Football. A glorious South London sun baked the pink ‘n’ blue UGLIES. It was quite a beautiful moment.

“THE DULWICH HAMLET WILL NOT BE TELEVISED MUTHAFUCKER!!!!”

There.

That told him.

It was a particularly unwise decision to try and bring a TV camera right into the bleeding heart of Rabble Central.

Don’t say FUCK or BUGGER etc.

Oh, wankstain.

And then I missed a Leiston equaliser.

Whoops.

I was too busy calculating the Dulwich goal difference given the other Ryman scores that were coming in.

Or perhaps I was just bouncing around like a NUTJOB and waving my big pink ‘n’ blue scarf?

Leiston scored a third with a classic away game breakaway. The Rabble paused for about three seconds, and then collectively realised that what we have here has NOTHING to do with self-pity and petty football 606 style ramblings.

GLORIOUS FALURE - it’s the Transpontine way.

“I MAKE LOVE TO MY OWN IMAGE!!!!”

…declared Glam Wolfie.

I didn’t like to tell the fine fella that he was flying low. The cage was open, but the beast was asleep.

GRRRRR!!!!

That’s neat, that’s neat, that’s neat, that’s neat - I really love your pink ‘n’ blue tiger feat.

We have already won the moral victory, Comrades.