First, Dr Les with his side of the story: Sir, I for one was loudly cheering and applauding the antics of Celestine when he took it upon himself to turn up the temperature of a match drifting quietly along. This is the FA Cup and Celestine, quite rightly being the natural entertainer, playfully had a bite of swede and decided he liked the taste so took laughing boy Bergkamp to task. I should point out that I was the only one in the pub who agreed with Celestine's tactics, but I say carry on Celestine, football is for entertainment and seeing the look of pure horror on the faces of Ljungberg and Bergkamp was priceless. Well done my boy, back flips all round ! I find it interesting that you are now pretending to be all for sportsmanship, Priesty. Is this a new concept that you have suddenly acquired ? Was it sporting to remind Gazza that he's fat and he beats his wife or to chant "Ulrika, wife beater" to Stan Collymore ? Where in the sporting handbook does it say that it is ok to encourage a player to stamp on another players fucking throat or to scream "stab him !" at the top of your voice - and I have heard you screaming these and many other profanities many, many times. Sportsmanship ! you fucking muppet. Not a lot to look forward to for the rest of the season Priesty ? How does the sound of running round Tottenham with your willy hanging out sound to you? It sounds pretty fucking good to me. Although I advise a note of caution when venturing into the mean streets of Tottenham as I was once set upon and was savagely beaten by truncheon wielding members of the North London constabulary, and I had my willy firmly in my trousers. So my advice to you and your readers would be to wake up and smell the fucking coffee. We are the Chelsea and we are supreme. Yes, Les, I admit that I have yelled those things in the heat of the moment, but not any more. I am now a well-rounded individual who shuns controversy of any sort. I apologise profusely to Stan and Gazza, who are not wife-beaters even though the papers say that they are, and to all those who suffered from my incitements to kill from the terraces. Having said that, Les, I fear I must comment on your so-called advice on walking the mean streets of Tottenham. The incident to which you refer was witnessed by none other than myself, and I think you will agree that I am as unimpeachable a witness as you will find. Readers, I can confirm that Les was set upon by truncheon wielding members of the North London constabulary, and that he did indeed have his appendage in his trousers, although "firmly" is not an adjective that immediately springs to mind, having seen Les in the showers. I digress. The incident occurred after an evening of beastliness unmatched in Chelsea folklore, which started with myself and the good Doc negotiating the ten mile walk from the tube station up Tottenham High Rd to Three Point Lane. We naturally built up a considerable thirst on this marathon, so we were forced to visit every off-licence en route, of which there are many. We bought a quarter bottle of vodka and a beer each at the first, only to find that the next one was only twenty yards away. Naturally we were obliged to empty the contents of the first batch before entering. This dubious strategy was employed religiously at every stop as we made our increasingly unsteady way along the high road, with the inevitable result that by the time we reached the ground we were somewhat the worse for wear. In fact it would not be exaggerating to say that we were absolutely wankered, if you will forgive the expression.. This turned out to be a fortuitous turn of events, as when we shambled our way, wild-eyed and yelling drunkenly, into our seats, we found ourselves slap, bang in the middle of a group of people who could only be described as Spurs fans. In fact it turned out to be the home supporters area, and we two idiots were the only Chelsea in the entire stand, at least the only ones too pissed to keep it to ourselves. Unfortunately the Spurs fans didn't seem to appreciate the fact that we were there trying to liven up the place. It takes all sorts.. To cut a long and hair-raising story short, Chelsea having gone 2-0 up as usual, myself and Les were literally jumping up and down on our seats, openly baiting the spurs fans. Being completely arseholed we failed to appreciate the danger we were in, which had the fortunate effect of making us appear to be fearless nutters, which in turn kept the Spurs fans from mobbing us. Something had to give, though, and eventually about 50 of them decided the odds were good enough to have a go, whereupon, perhaps fortunately for us, the police and stewards entered the fray. We looked forward with relish to the opportunity of baiting the entire Spurs crowd as we were forgmarched into the Chelsea end, but the coppers obviously realised that this would be the case and decided that we were less likely to cause a riot if we stayed where we were. A copper was stationed next to us, and for the rest of the match we put up with increasing demands from the Spurs mob to get us out of their fucking stand. We, of course, revelled in this, baiting them all the more, until the copper finally lost his patience and told us that next time we moved he would take us out and give us "a fucking good hiding". As interesting an interpretation of the law as this was, anticipation of a hiding from the coppers failed to have any effect, but the thought of missing the rest of the game did, so we quietened down a bit. The game ended in the usual huge victory to Chelsea, and we were escorted in high spirits past the sullen ranks of Spurs fans, trying to bait them without the coppers noticing. We suddenly found ourselves, unescorted, outside the ground. It was pitch dark, and there were groups of blokes walking down both sides of Tottenham High Road, which had been cordoned off to make the middle of the road a no-go zone. This zone was patrolled by hundreds of sour-looking old bill armed with riot shields, pepper spray, batons and Alsatians, and was clearly designed to keep rival sets of fans apart, but the trouble was that nobody had said which side of the road was which. We attached ourselves to a large group of blokes who appeared to have done their clothes shopping at Stone Island, if you get my drift, on the grounds that there is security in numbers, and we didn't fancy being bushwacked. Having happily staggered along in the middle of this group for a few minutes, reminiscing fondly and loudly on the evening's events, we finally realised to our mounting horror that we were, you've guessed it, on the wrong side of the road - the blokes we were tagging along with were a Spurs firm, and they were looking for trouble. Luckily they hadn't yet spotted us as being from the other side. I suggested to Les under my breath that we should just brazen it out, and try and detach ourselves at the earliest opportunity, but before I could stop him he had vaulted the crash barriers, and was walking along the middle of the road, completely oblivious to the thousand coppers who were advancing towards him.. I watched helplessly as a large and ugly copper came up behind him, just as he shouted across to me "Come on, Priesty, it's much safer over here !". Even as the idiot was yelling this inaccurate advice, the copper laid into him with his baton. The mob around me stopped to watch, laughing their bollocks off. The situation was so ludicrous that, in spite of the disloyal feelings that this invoked, I couldn't help joining in. I was literally helpless with mirth, and the Spurs firm laughed all the more at the sight of me lying in the road howling. A truly magical experience, never to be forgotten.. The moral, readers, is that jumping from the frying pan without first doing a bit of elementary research can lead to you ending up in very hot water. To paraphrase the good doctor: I won't charge you for this advice..
© 2000
Priesty's Chelsea FC Refuge.
I am seriously considering withdrawing my support of your so-called Chelsea site after reading your reaction to the Arsenal
debacle. Why am I so outraged? I will fucking tell you why..
Dr Les, The Voice of Reason
