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how many times had we played them before gartside?

That's a picture from the upcoming book "Camberwick Green Street" by Windy Miller. Excerpt: I remember one time me and Mr Caraway the fishmonger decided to teach those Trumpton cunts a lesson once a

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Sheffield Wednesday have sacked their manager. Had to look it up who their manager was - Stuart Gray - & it seems that they've got quite a bit of money to spend from somewhere, so it could be an attractive job to get.

Ex Bolton player from the dark days.
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That's a picture from the upcoming book "Camberwick Green Street" by Windy Miller.

Excerpt:

I remember one time me and Mr Caraway the fishmonger decided to teach those Trumpton cunts a lesson once and for all. We mobbed up with a few of the soldier boys from Pippin Fort and took Mrs Dingle's dog, Packet, along for good measure. We got there early doors just as the fire crew were waking up after an overnight shift. Before you could say "Chigley" we waded in and before you knew it Cuthbert, Hugh and Pugh's teeth were splattered half way to the town hall. Dibble turned up so we legged it, got Packet to shit in the bandstand then rang Chippy Minton to call in a result. We were chuffed as shit on the way home till out of the blue Bill Sticker Nick and Mrs. Cobbitt appeared tooled up - Minton's mate Nibs had brought his chisels. How the fuck we got out of that in one piece I'll never know; took the fucking wind right out my sails and I stayed away from Trumptonshire Violence until Lord Belborough's garden party. Tell you what, he never played his organ again after I finished with him that day...

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Not the Tal Ben Haim who played for us, as I'm sure Malcipedia knows.

 

18% of the team were called Tal Ben Haim.

 

Btw Wales will probably now be in Pot 1 for the UEFA section of the World Cup draw next month.

(and England might be too)

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That's a picture from the upcoming book "Camberwick Green Street" by Windy Miller.

Excerpt:

I remember one time me and Mr Caraway the fishmonger decided to teach those Trumpton cunts a lesson once and for all. We mobbed up with a few of the soldier boys from Pippin Fort and took Mrs Dingle's dog, Packet, along for good measure. We got there early doors just as the fire crew were waking up after an overnight shift. Before you could say "Chigley" we waded in and before you knew it Cuthbert, Hugh and Pugh's teeth were splattered half way to the town hall. Dibble turned up so we legged it, got Packet to shit in the bandstand then rang Chippy Minton to call in a result. We were chuffed as shit on the way home till out of the blue Bill Sticker Nick and Mrs. Cobbitt appeared tooled up - Minton's mate Nibs had brought his chisels. How the fuck we got out of that in one piece I'll never know; took the fucking wind right out my sails and I stayed away from Trumptonshire Violence until Lord Belborough's garden party. Tell you what, he never played his organ again after I finished with him that day...

Brilliant!

Edited by bgoefc
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Love it Satan, where's that ecclesiastical excerpt

Well, from a (long) while back: 

 

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" I remember one day back in the mid 70s. We were up for a BAFTA and a few of us went down to the smoke for the event. Fortunately, Ray Langton had been tipped the wink that some of those cunts from Crossroads were up to no good, so we made sure we were tooled up. Emily Bishop and Minnie Caldwell were both carrying blades; Betty had pepper spray secreted in a hot pot base; Eddie Yates and Stan Ogden had a couple of baseball bats between them and Len had a spare pair of waterwings - "in case he got lucky". Yeh, we thought it was odd too, but we didn't know he was a nonce back then.

Anyhow, we get to television centre when wallpop! Out of the blue the Blue Peter mob piled in. Summat or other about how we fucked their garden over. Anyhow, before we knew it Percy Thrower lamps Stan with his fucking shovel and Valerie Singleton's there shoving a broken bottle into Emily's face! Fortunately, right at that moment the Emmerdale crew turned up; now they might be Yorkshire cunts, but when push comes to shove the unwritten rule is that northern soaps stick together. We mullered them. Half of Noaksey's teeth ended up flying over Shepherds Bush Green, Shep's walked with a limp ever since  and Peter Purves was pissing blood for a week.

"Result!!" we thought. But we'd spoke too soon. We'd taken our eye off the ball and forgotten about the Crossroads mob. Fucking brummie cunts steamed in just as we were celebrating at Euston. Top boy Noele Gorden led the charge - and we were fucked. Last thing I remember as I passed out was Benny putting the boot in to Albert Tatlock. Poor old cunt never was the same again..."

 

 

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"Norwich were playing away at Plymouth and so we couldn't resist the chance to do over that cunt Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. We got to River Cottage early doors: I shouted my trademark "let's be having you!" but his lot were nowhere to be seen. So we set fire to his herb garden, chucked his pig in the river and then as a parting shot I shat in his microwave, before leaving a message on his answerphone claiming a result and off we went. Mind you, we regretted it later when he turned up on our manor tooled up with Gary Rhodes and that cunt who used to be the Galloping Gourmet...."

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"So naturally I think to myself job's a good 'un. Turns out on the third day he only goes and fucking rises again. Shat me fucking toga when they told me. I knew he'd be on the warpath and sure enough he turned up mob handed; must have been about a dozen of them jumped us coming out of the Toby Calvary. We were well outnumbered, specially since that slag Judas had gone awol. I reckoned he grassed us up, the cunt. Barabbas got seven shades of shit kicked out of him; God knows how I got out in one piece. Actually, if His son had connected with that lance he'd knicked, I wouldn't have done..."

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 Or

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If there's one event all the lads into Church Violence look forward to - whatever parish your firm is from - it's the General Synod. Guaranteed to kick off every time, and 2006 was no exception! I travelled down with the usual crew (the Deacon, two gravediggers and the vicar of Stamford) and a couple of lay preachers who'd done time for wounding with intent and who decided to tag along for the ride. Little did we know that when the going got tough these lads were going to be like mannah from heaven!
Apart from a bit of a bundle with some gobby fuckers from the Birmingham Diocesan Schools Commission at Watford Gap Services (one of the gravedigger's spades come in handy then, I can tell you!) we saw no action until we parked up in Oxford. Couple of bottles of communion wine down our necks and we were ready for action - and it came soon enough when Right Rev Graham James, Bishop of Norwich and his yokel crew started taking liberties. No fucking messing we just piled into the tractor-driving bastards. It was all too easy until we realised too late we'd been had; out of the blue the Canterbury lads - fucking dozens of them, all tooled up - come steaming in with top boy RW leading the charge. God knows how we got out of there in one piece??.

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 And one last blast from the past:

 

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"The World Ecumenical Council meeting is always a good excuse for a fucking good bundle, and 2012 was no exception. We turned up mob handed at the Wembley Conference Centre - couple of lay preachers, the grave digger and his mate, and half the parochial church council. We blended in well and found ourselves in a lecture by Paster Maldonardo, the archdeacon of Rio, on religious tolerance and the role of the church in world peace. Call went up and we piled in big time; great thing was, the other UK lads were bang on the mark as well. I remember "The Guvnor", John Sentamu, Archbishop of York and hardest cunt in Church Violence, facing up the rector of some God-foresaken hamlet in the fucking outback of Argentina who frantically tried to reason with him by quoting Job 16:17.
"yet my hands have been free of violence and my prayer is pure" he jabbered. Sentamu just smiled as he nutted the cunt. I piled on to the podium and layed into the speaker, but as I turned in triumph I saw Sentamu's smile turn to horror. We'd fallen for the oldest trick in the Good Book - an ambush. The curtains behind the podium were drawn back to reveal 200 members of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, half of them tooled up. Fuck me - carnage ensued, and in those circumstances you have to look after number 1. As I dashed out of the hall I saw Terry Waite lying in a pool of his own sick and being kicked to fuck by three Zimbabwean misionaries. "Sorry mate", I thought, "It's every priest for himself".
As I savoured the cool air outside the hall I vowed revenge on them Yank bastards, and it came soon enough...."

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