We’ve once again been invited into the weird and wonderful world of Matt Warrilow. Here he talks about his experiences taking in yesterday’s match against Fulham, in Fulham.
As you won’t know…or in fact care, I am a Wolves fan based down in The Big Smoke.
The land of cockles and muscles, apples and pears and Danny f**king Dyer has treated me well since I moved south.
The only down side of this is due to added expenses, as well as a habit for spending all my hard-earned money on beer and chicken, I have to contend with watching our games in my bed, armed to the teeth with ginger beer, shouting rubbish insults at my laptop.
However, on Sunday, I got the chance to venture to lands new and far.
Someplace warm. A place where the beer flows like wine. Where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. I’m talking about a little place, called Fulham (Thanks Dumb and Dumber for that line).
Yes, I decided to go to a pub, in Fulham, where it is likely I would the only Wolves fan in the place. (I’d like to note that I also hadn’t…HADN’T been drinking when I made this decision)
I took my good friend Jason ‘I just support football’ Jones, along for the trip. After all, if I got lost in the wilderness of Fulham and had to stay alive, I’m definitely not going to eat my own arm!
Armed with our Tesco-reduced sandwiches, we entered the pub. Walking past the hat and tails bankers, sitting in the leather chairs, smoking their pipes and reading their copies of the Financial Times, we found a spot at the back.
What proceeded to occur over the next two hours shook their society as they knew it.
Their world was crumbling, and all because of 11 guys, half of them Irish, wearing gold, who were obviously pumped up, but not in the way Danny Murphy likes to talk about.
They kept on looking at their pocket watches, both hands spinning backwards at a furious speed. The fruit in their pools of Pimms quickly dissolving, turning their fair ponds into a mould infested stink bath.
The most professional and positive performance I had seen from us in so long time was met by a collection of sighs, which turned into shouts and screams, and was followed by men choking on oysters and gold infused champagne.
And there I was, sat there, in my shorts and my trainers which are battered having been in both an ocean in Spain and the canal in London, smiling like I’d just stolen their Waitrose priority card.
The looks on their faces behind their monocles said so much. They were seeing a team, who they thought they should at least pick up a draw from pass them off the park, create countless more chances and defend against them like a wall made of George Elokobi’s chest.
Fulham couldn’t be more miserable. I couldn’t be happier.
And for some reason, whenever I am really, really happy…I start singing…Do The Conga.
It’s an awful habit, one that I’ve tried to seek help for, but at that moment in time, I would gladly have done the Conga in a leper colony.
So we left the pub, with a skip in my step, and a conga in my head back to normal civilisation.
‘Back to Central London my good man’ I instructed the taxi driver.
He looked at the smile on my face, then down at my trainers, and then back at me.
‘F*ck you and your crap f*cking trainers, you Wolves supporting bastard’