Lonely Luggage

Have you ever noticed that when you are waiting for your luggage at an airport carousel, there is always that one piece of luggage that has been abandoned? It glides around the meandering track of the conveyor belt almost screaming out “Please retrieve me. Why have I been deserted?”

And as we wait for our luggage to make its way from our flight to the terminal at Tegel, there it was. That lonely suitcase. Doing endless laps around the carousel, like a brightly painted horse on a fairground ride. A pale red hard cased midsized suitcase, with definite signs of wear and tear. Scuff marks, a small dent, various stickers from previous journeys, and the little tag for its current one.

It was a remnant from an earlier flight from Istanbul. A poor lost lonely wanderer, forgotten by its owner, or discarded like a piece of paper in the wind. The number of laps it had made in unknown, but by the time our own bags turned up it had done well over twenty.

It had been turned around, and turned over, as people either looked to see if it might be theirs (despite one person who then picked up a black cloth bag instead), or nudging it out of the way as they struggled to drag their own heavy bags from the carousel.

We left with it still going around unclaimed. Had it even turned up to the correct airport? Was there a poor soul stood at Schiphol or Dubai waiting for their trusty pale red case to pop out onto the carousel there? The last person standing forlornly looking at the now empty carousel willing their bag to pop out so they can go to that meeting, or catch up with those long lost relatives. Only to find they now have a long lost case instead.

Will the case and the owner ever be reunited, or will they be doomed to circle luggage carousels for the rest of their days? Or when the airport closes for the night, will the suitcase be packed off to a lost and found, only to be auctioned off months later and only for the excited winning bidder to find it is full of now decidedly green Twinkies. What goes around comes around I suppose.

St Kevin

St. Kevin
St. Kevin

Hard as it may be to believe, there is actually a St. Kevin. If you can manage to get your head around that fact then it probably won’t surprise you to learn that St Kevin was from Irish stock. Records about his life are a bit sketchy, and they would have us believe he lived a very long life that spanned across three centuries. Granted it’s not as long as some of the ridiculousness of the ages quoted in the old testament (i.e. Methuselah at 969 years old etc.), but for someone to live to the supposed age of 120 in the fifth, sixth or seventh centuries is stretching the bounds of credulity.

He was born on an unspecified date in the year 498 and died on June 3rd 618. His name was Coemgen in Old Irish, which means “Fair begotten” or “Of noble birth” and is anglicised to Kevin. It took nearly thirteen hundred years from his death for him to be made a saint, but he eventually was in 1903 by Pope Pius X.

He spent most of his life in south east Ireland, mainly in Wicklow, and founded the Glendalough abbey c540. Glendalough meaning the “glen of the two lakes”. Having founded the abbey he spent most of his life being a hermit, trying to avoid those who would become his followers. He took refuge in a bronze-age tomb in the Wicklow Mountains, which is now known as St. Kevin’s Bed.

He was immortalised in the Seamus Heaney poem “St Kevin and the Blackbird”, as St Kevin is the patron saint of Blackbirds. Who knew? Blackbirds have their own patron saint. He also features several times in James Joyce’s “Finnegan’s Wake”, and made it into song in The Dubliners “The Glendalough Saint”.

I was born in the right month for it as well, though still a fair few days off of his saint’s day on the 3rd June. A day that seems to delight in being the saint’s day for other numerous obscure saints – Charles Lwanga, Clotilde, Ovidius and Vladimirskaya to name a few. But falling as it does it gets somewhat overshadowed in the ecclesiastical calendar by the heavyweight St. Peter and St Paul’s day on the first of the month.

There are a few churches named for St Kevin, two in Dublin, one Roman Catholic and one Church of Ireland, two in Glendalough and then others in Kilkenny and Kildare. He doesn’t seem to have made it to the UK or USA, but there are colleges named after him in both Australia and New Zealand.

It’s so much easier nowadays to find this kind of information out. When I was a kid growing up in Leicester with the name Kevin, the only saint Kevin that would have been mentioned would have been the saint Kevin of Keegan as celebrated by Liverpool fans. Well right up until the moment he buggered off to Germany to play for SV Hamburg, and they inherited King Kenny instead.

Now you can track all the information down in the internet. There is no being stuck in a Catholic school where everyone had obvious saint’s names like Andrew, Peter, Paul, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Adverts ridiculed the name as well. There was the advertising slogan (for a now forgotten company), “So simple even Kevin could use it”, then the “Kev, Bev, Bev, Kev” adverts that came at the start of recent Oscar winner’s Olivia Coleman’s career, plus Aldi’s ridiculous Kevin the Carrot. And don’t get me started on Roland Rat’s sidekick Kevin the Gerbil.

Despite all this I do like the name and I now use it as a badge of honour, especially in its shortened version (as can be seen from the website etc.)

I was named after a saint, despite what many people seem to think. I’m not sure personally about the whole blackbird thing, but I can say there are churches (and colleges) bearing my name.

Sub Par Way

Another Saturday for writing, but it was just an afternoon session today, so I was wandering into town a few hours later than I usually did. I can see why I like going into town early; there are less people around, and a lot less lunacy.

It was no use going into Maccy D’s at this time of day. As I passed the front doors it looked like a sardine tin in there. Plus they stopped serving their breakfast items a couple of hours ago, and nothing else from there is worth consuming. I’d been put off of eating anything from Burger King due to an absolutely shit effort from their outlet on Victoria station a few months ago, so I decided to go for a Subway. I hadn’t had one in a while and it would make a pleasant change.

Which must have been the thought for lots of other people too, as it was the only outlet in the mall’s food court with a queue stretching out past their own frontage.

I don’t mind queuing, I’m fairly patient. Which is more than can be said for the bratty little girl in the queue behind me. She spent the entire time I was queuing just walking into the back of me, stepping back a couple of steps and then doing it again. I just about managed to resist the temptation to swing my elbow back in to the top of her head, or squarely into her evil looking face, but it was a close call.

I have a simple order, being a creature of habit, it’s the same one I always have, a Subway melt on hearty Italian. But today it was painful.

Do you want cheese on that?

Yes, it comes with cheese anyway.

Do you want extra cheese?

Yes please.

Sorry, I don’t understand.

Yes please, I do want extra cheese.

No, I still don’t understand.

Yes. I do want extra cheese.

Ah, OK.

Plus I want it microwaving please, not toasting.

Thirty seconds later after they’ve haphazardly slapped all the meat and cheese onto the bread, they’re trying to put my nice foot long sub into the toaster. When I stopped them and got them to put it into the microwave they looked at me as if I’d grown two heads.

Why the hell would I want a Subway melt toasted? There’s a hint and a half in the name. MELT, not fucking toasted. They are obsessed with everything being toasted nowadays. Granted, the microwaves are now hidden away in hard to reach places to try and prevent people having items microwaved, but that annoys the hell out of me. A melt is supposed to melt in the mouth, not rip the gums away in a crispy toasted bread hell. If I wanted overly crispy bread and crozzled ingredients I could do that at home without even trying.

When I got my sub done the right way with the right salad and sauces on, it was delicious and it did melt in the mouth. Their long running slogan was Eat Fresh. Well I just about did today, and I will again in the future, but I will have to remember to watch them like hawks to make sure they don’t slip it into the toaster.

My Favourite Song

The Tears Of A Clown – Smokey Robinson & The Miracles.

I was properly introduced to Motown by a couple of school friends in my third year at senior school – John Weston & Dictino Garcia – they were both instrumental in bringing Motown and Northern Soul into my life. Something that has stayed with me ever since, and forms the basis for my record collecting.

I had heard some Motown songs prior to this time, but hadn’t really understood where it all came from.

I was spending money from my paper round on getting the cassettes in the Motown Hits Of Gold series, and the week I bought volume four I played it to death. On the whole it covered the year 1970, the year of my birth, something I didn’t notice until much later, and had all the big Motown stars of the time on it. The Supremes, both with and without Diana Ross, the start of Diana Ross’s solo career, The Four Tops, The Temptations, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, The Jackson 5, Jimmy Ruffin and Edwin Starr, but the track that caught my attention and has never let go since was Tears Of A Clown by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles.

The upbeat whirl-a-jig circus sound to the music is such an uplifting piece, but the lyrics are so sad, and even as a teenager they spoke to me and spoke of me. I was shy and introverted, and I liked my own company. Yet to try and overcome this I would try to be a class clown. But at times I would be at home, in my own room, or lying in bed at night and I would feel so unhappy, so down.

This song was me at that point in my life and has been at many times since. There have been tens of thousands of records that have passed through my ownership over the years; hundreds of thousands of songs that I have owned, listened to and sang along to. But since the day I heard this song on that cassette it has been my favourite song, and I doubt anything will ever replace it.

Yet it could have all been so different. Originally it was a mere album track. Stevie Wonder and Motown producer Hank Cosby wrote the music for the 1966 Motown Christmas party, but couldn’t come up with lyrics for it. Smokey Robinson could, lyrics that had such juxtaposition with the music. It was one of three songs written and recorded with The Miracles in a similar vein along with “My Smile Is Just A Frown (Turned Upside Down)” and “Tracks Of My Tears”. “Behind A Painted Smile”, also from 1967 by The Isley Brothers is in the same theme.

The song ended up on Smokey Robinson & The Miracles’ 1967 album “Make It Happen”. It only became a single by accident. Three years later The Miracles – without Smokey Robinson – were touring Europe, and had had recent chart success in the UK, but were lacking any new material. One of the office staffers in Motown’s London office was pushing for “Tears Of A Clown” to be used as a single to keep the group’s momentum going. There were some doubts, but it was eventually released as a single in the UK in July of that year (just a couple of weeks after I was born).

Two months later it was the UK number one single, Motown’s first number one of the seventies. It was then released as a single in the US, and hit number one on the Billboard Hot 100. That belated success for a song only done as an album track meant it appeared on the Motown Hits Of Gold Volume four cassette that I had bought. (Along with countless other Motown compilations over the years as one of their biggest ever hits.)

It brought it to my attention, and I had to have the single. The original UK release with its now imprinted label number of TMG745 is not the most valuable record in my collection. It’s fairly easy to come by as it was such a big hit at the time. But it is easily the most prized record I own. In fact I have two copies, just in case!

Impromptu Soul Night

When I had dropped Helen and Jackie off at their friends just after seven, Jackie had jokingly said “pick us up after midnight”.

It was just after one when I did pick them up, as usual I was still awake, and being in I wasn’t drinking. Well not until we got back home and an impromptu soul session started. That started after lots of laughter instead of sympathy after Jackie stacked it on the slippy patio whilst playing with Charlie. The next half hour was a mixture between her shouting at the dog saying it was all his fault her shoulder was hurting, mixed in with playing with the dog.

After some time of this alternating, Jackie asked for The Snake, by Al Wilson, which prompted the usual discussion of ‘have you seen the clips where Trump reads the lyrics of the song out during speeches’, and the fact he draws parables between the snake in the song and immigrants in the USA. There are numerous YouTube clips of it. The man is barking mad.

From that single single came nearly an hour’s blast of soul and Motown singles, helped along by large tumblers of some imitation Bailey’s Irish Cream and ice. Just what the neighbours needed at two in the morning.

Even if I say so myself, there was a good playlist following The Snake.

Joe Tex – Under Your Powerful Love,

Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons – The Night,

Frank Wilson – Do I Love You (Indeed I do), which was being put on the record player seconds before the request came for it.

R. Dean Taylor – There’s a Ghost in My House.

Martha Reeves & The Vandellas – Third Finger, Left Hand and I Can’t Dance To That Music You’re Playing (which led to talk of Betty Boo).

Gladys Knight & The Pips – I Heard It Thru’ The Grapevine

Edwin Starr – Back Street,

The Velvelettes – Needle in a Haystack, and He Was Really Saying Something (and yes Bananarama were mentioned)

The Miracles – Love Machine,

Back to Edwin Starr – 25 Miles,

The Contours – Do You Love Me,

Before finishing with Motown’s first ever release sixty years ago – Barrett Strong – Money (That’s What I Want) and discussion on who covered it in the early eighties. (Late seventies and it was the Flying Lizards)

During the run of records the disco balls were dusted off and given a spin for the first time in years. Poor old Charlie looked most bemused at the fact there were people up and making noise, and sitting on his sofa during his quiet night time sojourn.

And despite the fact that we all didn’t go to bed until nearly three, Nathan still managed to time getting home to exactly ten minutes after we’d all gone to bed. The search for the camera continues.

Flanagan’s Run by Tom McNab

So where did I get the name for my latest e-zine, Flanagan’s Running Club from? Well, from my favourite book.

I am on my fifth or sixth version of this book, plus having it on my Kindle. I’ve lost a couple of copies in house moves, and others through lending them to friends as I’ve recommended it as my favourite book ever. But I get antsy if I don’t have a copy I could just pick up and read at a whim whenever I wanted to.

Since the first time I read it as a teenager, it has been a book I return to time after time. Thirty odd years down the line I’ve just done my annual reading of it.

It is a book that never ceases to move me every time I’ve read it, such is the affinity you feel with the characters. There are often tears, both of joy and sadness.

It is set in the United States in 1931, a time where the country was still suffering from the great depression. It follows the grand idea of Charles Flanagan to have a running race from Los Angeles to New York set over three months, and the trials and tribulations of the race, those running it, and those competing in it. Weaving in their back stories as we progress across America.

The characters are a great mixed bag, coming from a range of backgrounds and countries. Different ages and sexes. They entice you into the story with them and then carry you along on a rollercoaster ride.

And what a ride it is. There are powers at work trying to stop the race. The FBI are investigating it, others are worried that the race will ruin the Olympic Games that Los Angeles is going to be hosting the following year. Flanagan has to keep trying to overcome the obstacles set in his way.

Towns and cities that have promised to pay for stage finishes refuse to pay, or refuse to let them enter the town, or make it so they can only enter after dark. The caterers are leant upon to pull out, and the main sponsor goes into liquidation. Yet through chance, and the fortitude of the runners they manage to keep going.

They get involved in various sideshows along the way as a way to raise money, Highland Games, men vs horses racing, boxing matches and more besides, and when they do make it to the end, they get an offer from a new company to pay the original prize money. But there is a catch.

Real life figures come into play along the way, there is a team of Nazi youth competitors entered into the race, they cross swords with Al Capone and Frank Nitti in Chicago, J. Edgar Hoover takes a personal interest, and the big film stars of the day get involved in starting the race and spectating at the end.

You are rooting for the characters to make it, and pleasingly a lot of them do. They overcome what has been thrown at them, they have beaten the circumstances, the cheats and their demons. Some find love along the way, and some their personal redemption.

It is a glorious read, and even after over thirty readings, I will be returning to it again next year, and the year after, and every year that I’m still alive. There are stacks of books that I have to make my way through all the time, but I will always make time to read this and experience the magnificent journey of those running machines across 1930’s America.

Diddly Diddly

Sunday afternoon saw us heading to The Plough (Three Bridge, not Ifield) for a friend’s birthday drinks. It was advertised to us that there was a band on playing Irish folk music.

They hadn’t started playing by the time we got there, and already the pub had ran out of Guinness. I mean, seriously, how the hell do you run out of Guinness when you know there’s going to be an Irish band on. People were flapping and rushing around seeing if they could get a barrel from another pub in the locality. (Which they did manage about an hour later.)

With it being planned that I would be driving home, I ordered a soft drink, but in addition to the Guinness, they had no bitter lemon either, so my St Clements was out the window.

Not only that, but when someone else asked for a tea, they got as far as the teabag going in the paper cup and hot water added to it, only to find there was no milk left and they had to send someone out to buy some from the local shop.

It wasn’t quite a case of Slim Dusty’s “A Pub With No Beer”, but it was getting there.

Turns out it wasn’t just an Irish band, it was a bit of a charity do, and so there were all comers lining up to play some instruments and sing a bit. I’d migrated to the other bar to watch the Spurs game (another two hours of my life I’ll never get back – but that’s a whole different subject.) Even so, I could hear the change over from Irish folk music to a whole random section of anything goes.

Even in the other room it was difficult not to hear whoever the hell it was beating the living daylights out of Buggles’ “Video Killed The Radio Star”. The same person murdered something else straight after it, but it was so bad I have no idea what the hell they were trying to perform.

There was a better turn from Mike Dobie, and some reasonable blues (perfectly applicable for watching the football), before it ended up back at the folk music.

And then it was over, three hours of random music and catching up with friends over a few drinks was over, not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Shoot That Poison Arrow

For a lot of people there are big birthdays, the ones that most people recognise as milestones. The 16th, 18th, 21st, 30th, 40th, 50th etc. These are the ones that have parties and gatherings and are memorable. Not many people however, celebrate their upcoming 35th birthday as a biggie though.

Which is where Liam comes in. To commemorate the turn from his early thirties to his late thirties he did the only thing appropriate to mark such an occasion. He hired a room in a social club and organised a darts tournament.

Indeed!

So, on a Friday night in late January, sixteen of Sussex’s worst ever darts players made their way to Hove and the legendary darts venue that is The Goldstone Club.

What do you mean you’ve never heard of it? Tucked away in a side street near to Hove train station, crammed in to the middle of a row of terraced houses, it is a surprise that anyone has ever heard of it. It’s a throwback to when these little social clubs used to be all over the place. Yet so many of them have been destroyed over the years. The reduction in numbers of people using them have often meant they have been destroyed to make way for more soulless housing. It’s good to see one like this surviving, with it’s little bar area, then the good sized function room tagged on to the side at the back, so that it would be behind one of the terraced houses, and with it’s smaller meeting and function rooms upstairs. The kind of place where you would be taken as a kid, given a bottle of pop and packet of crisps and be told to sit quietly in the corner.

The bonus of this type of club still being around and available to hire rooms from is that the booze is cheap. Which is exactly why all the dart players go there.

Oh yes, the darts. Now Liam is a big fan of the darts, and he goes a few times a year to watch it, mainly I think because he loves the fancy dress bit. Therefore for his birthday, he wanted his own darts tournament. The first ever LBM Birthday Trophy Event.

Everyone who turned up was expected to play. Not only were they expected to play, but they also had to come up with their own dart player nickname. For those who couldn’t manage to do this for themselves, Liam provided a link to a dart player’s random name generator. Those playing weren’t even finished at that point. They also had to come up with some walk on music. Something that for twelve of the sixteen players was a waste of time, as the walk on music was disregarded until the semi-final stage.

There was fierce competition to be crowned the least worst of worst. One competitor even failed to make it to the oche, with a nick name of “The Rabbit”, he must have taken one look at the nick name of his opposition – “The Hyena” and done a runner.

Some of the games took quite a long time. They were only playing the one leg of 301 for the first two rounds, but some of those legs lasted longer than some televised matches. More darts were thrown at double one, Annie’s room, the mad house, or whatever else you want to call it, than would be thrown at it in a dozen World Championships. Not that it got hit very often. So much so that some games got to the stage where the players wouldn’t have hit a double if they played until Christmas, and so did a “highest score wins” to decide the games instead.

The host and organiser of the event didn’t manage to make it through to the later stages of the tournament, crashing to defeat against “Macca Crackers” in the second round.

After over three hours of low quality darts it got to the final, where the aforementioned “Macca Crackers” played “Magic Mike” in what turned out to be a bit of a mismatch as “Macca Crackers” ran out a straight legs winner, and was crowned as the first ever winner of the LBM Birthday Trophy. There has been the possibility of a stewards inquiry into the winner’s previous darting form, as it looked suspiciously like he could actually play a bit and had therefore been faking it to make it in to the final sixteen of the worst of the worst.

It was amazing that over four hours worth of darts went by in the blink of an eye. It was even more amazing that no one ended up with a dart in the eye, such was the standard of the arrows being thrown.

If this lot had been on the battlefield in the Battle of Hastings on the Norman side (keeping the Sussex connection going), then Harold would have kept his eye, and probably his throne, and there wouldn’t have been the multitude of 11th and 12th century castle building. So it’s probably a good thing they weren’t.

Then it was time for the final checkout, before we were all chucked out, and the competitors headed off in various directions to all corners of the county.

Overall it was a well organised and run tournament, which gives us just a little bit of hope that Liam can pull off the organisation of the proposed Brighton Pub Crawl later in the year.

The Birdwoman of Atlantic House

I’m sure that most people have heard of the “Birdman of Alcatraz”, but here in Crawley we have the “Birdwoman of Atlantic House”.

Despite the fact that we have been told not to eat at our desks in our office because we may drop crumbs and those crumbs attract mice, our local lunatic cleaner had thrown out all sorts of bread, what appeared to be mini chicken kievs and god knows what else for the local creatures. Squirrels, mice, rats, pigeons, crows, they were all out there on the grass feeding themselves. Coexisting very nicely thank you. Until the seagulls arrived and started muscling in on the food source.

At which point the maddest and biggest bird of them all, blue with purple plumage on top, comes flying out from who knows where, waving her arms and squawking with more decibels output than the passing cars, trains and planes could muster. So loud that it could clearly be heard inside the building through the triple glazed windows.

This mad old bird then pulled a wheelie bin all the way down the car park with one arm, whilst waving the other frantically and still squawking at top volume. Once she had exchanged the wheelie bin for another, she back up the other side of the car park doing the same thing but with the other arm, only finally stopping squawking once she was back in the building.

Noe, this is by no means her first mad five minutes: sleeping stood up in the corner of a meeting room, eating leftover curled up sandwiches from the day before, and sweeping all the way down to the main road (well outside of the office grounds). Yet despite it all she has the cheek to moan about other people going about their normal business.

Only ten minutes after doing her birdwoman impression, she spent a couple of minutes tutting and sighing theatrically because someone happened to be having a telephone conversation on the landing near her cleaning supplies cupboard. When this huffing and puffing along side intense glaring didn’t stop the telephone call, she slammed the cleaning supplies cupboard door and angrily stomped off down the stairs muttering curses in some language no one else understands.

There’s nowt as queer as folk.

Everything is Goulden

Week fifteen of the season saw teams playing their fourteenth games of the season. Very few eyes were on the game in the later slot, of the San Francisco 49ers hosting the Seattle Seahawks.

It was looked upon as a David vs Goliath affair, with the relative newcomers from the Californian backwater (with only the mere five Superbowl titles) not given a hope in hell of beating the extremely historic Washington State powerhouse (with their amazing haul of a single Superbowl title and an ultimate choke job).

The teams had met just a couple of weeks before, where the Seahawks had flown out easy winners in a 173-6 blowout. When asked about the game, one of their fans, an Elisha Starbuck, twenty-one, said it was the best performance she had seen in the thirty-one years she had been watching the Seahawks, and she was expecting much the same in the forthcoming game.

On the first possession it did look as if it might go the same way, the Seahawks flew down the field and got an early touchdown. They were so confident about the result that their kicker deliberately missed the PAT attempt. He’d have been better off deliberately missing the kick-off attempt as the 49ers returned the resulting kick-off ninety-eight yards for a touchdown. It was their first touchdown from a kick-off return in one hundred and twenty-four years (ed. are you sure this is right?)

When asked in the post-match interviews, the 49ers coach Kyle Shanahanahan said that it gave the team confidence that they could score touchdowns from anywhere on the field; which is why they were more than happy for the Seahawks to keep downing punts within the two yard line.

The 49ers were never behind in the game again, eking out another touchdown in the first half, before moving into overdrive with a display of field goal kicking for the ages. All whilst managing to stop the Seahawks from going on their own mega scoring binge as they had just two weeks before.

Shanahanahan spoke about how they had managed this in the post-match interview.

“Well, during the week I had a chat with good old Bobby Baldy our DC, and we came up with a plan to try something new and unheard of in San Francisco – tackling. Granted we think it needs a bit more work as a couple of Seahawks touchdowns showed in the second half, but it wasn’t a bad effort for a first attempt. We might try this new-fangled tackling thing in future games as well.”

The game was astonishing for an unbelievable series of events from the officiating crew, who consistently called penalties against both teams. Yes, even against the Seahawks. For a change it wasn’t just the 49ers shooting themselves in the foot with penalties. The Seahawks were getting called for everything they normally didn’t. They even got called for their speciality trick play of lining up a line-backer directly behind the quarterback at the snap. In total the Seahawks got called for one hundred and fourteen penalties worth a mile and a half in distance.

Billy Bob Microsoft, seventeen, a resident of Bellevue commented after the match. “I’ve been a Seahawks fan for thirty five years now, and a twelfth man for longer than that. This was my first away game. I couldn’t believe we were getting penalties called against us. It never happens at home games. We kept getting called for having twelve men on the field and a five yard penalty. What’s the point of being the twelfth man if we can’t be on the field? It’s a stupid rule.”

Seahawks head coach – Petey Carrollsinger – was so incandescent at this unheard of turn of events he almost swallowed his chewing gum. In the post-match interview he made his feelings clear.

“I couldn’t believe we were getting called for penalties whilst on defence. It has never happened in my thirty-two years here with the team. We never get called for GBH and attempted decapitation normally. I almost swallowed my gum I was so mad about it. What happened to the all the additional money we put in the zebra’s 401k’s. If I had have swallowed my gum then there would have been serious consequences, I can tell you. I’m only two years short of the thirty-seven years I need to break the world record for the longest time spent chewing the same piece of gum. And I don’t leave it on my bedpost overnight like that Lonnie Donegan amateur.”

The game ended up going to overtime after some more excellent tackling from the Bobby Baldy defence. The Seahawks won the toss with the double headed coin they had bunged the referee, but failed to get out of their own half due to some more tackling. The 49ers then managed to cobble together enough forward motion to give their kicker Robbie Goulden the chance to kick his fourth field goal of the game to win it all. Which he did. He really does put the Gould into red and gould.

The commentary boxes were chaos and mayhem. Even Harry Doyle popped up, shouting, “The 49ers win it, the 49ers win it, oh my god the 49ers win it.”

The 49ers move to a season best four wins, and are lining up a run to the 2024 playoffs.

The game also saw the first appearances of the 49ers on NFL Redzone this season that didn’t involve showing a touchdown scored against them. In fact there were relatively long period of screen time for the 49ers, a move which may bring additional fans to the previously little heard of new franchise.

A Hector Palo Alto, eighty-one, was quoted as saying, “I like the look of this new-fangled 49ers team, hopefully they can get a couple of minutes on future redzones instead of us seeing established teams like the Browns, Jags and Texans all the time.

When asked about the screen time the 49ers had got on Redzone this week, the host Scott Mmmbop Hanson said,

“We didn’t really have a lot of choice. There was only one other game in the same window. The one everyone wanted to see with the Patriots playing the Steelers. However beggars can’t be choosers, so we had to keep flicking to the Seahawks – 49ers games to fill in all the breaks in the other game. After all we do advertise ourselves as seven hours of commercial free football. We did try to dilute it with rehashing some highlights from earlier games, but there is a limit to what you can do with that. We are hoping that normal service is resumed next week.”

With two wins on the trot now for the 49ers, they are hoping that this is now normal service and they can wrap up the season with two more wins to match last season’s total to ramp up the false hope for coming seasons.