January 3 2006

Selhurst Park

Jamesey reflects on a long-running relationship with a figment of his imagination...

After a lacklustre 2-0 victory against Derby County (Dec 28) during the festive period, I was walking back to Selhurst rail station when a familiar voice made itself known

"What a load of old rubbish you were tonight. Come on, Jamesey, you were murdered by the Rams in the first half hour. It was only a lucky goal from that Brummagem reject that even got you back in the game."

Grossfudger continued in this vein for a while until I managed to interrupt him.

"Look Grossfudger...we are, at this point in time, fifth in the Championship league, with a couple of games in hand. Is that a 'rubbish' position?"

"Don't kid yourself, Jamesey, you're living in Cloud Cuckoo Land and you'll soon be sliding down the table again. High balls to a dwarf? That's all you can do."

And then, mercifully, he was gone.

Grossfudger has been with me all my life. He is my guardian demon, my anti-conscience, the voice that always tells me to do the wrong thing.

Grossfudger often appears when I am confronted by mortal temptations.

"Go on, Jamesey boy, have a choc chip cookie with your latte coffee," he will entreat. "Just the one won't do you any harm."

I find myself munching a giant brown discus seething with toxic fats and cholesterol, guaranteed to destroy any six-month medication regime.

Whenever I have dined long and well, Grossfudger is always there to dig me in the ribs.

"Have another glass of wine, Jamesey boy. Don't go to bed yet. Have a couple more. Life's too short to abstain. Go on..."

Next day, I blearily wish I'd sent Grossfudger packing.

But Grossfudger's prime pleasure is is to continually goad me over one of my life's consuming passions - football.

He knows that I endeavour to be a constant and loyal CPFC supporter but is always seeking to probe and breach my defences.

Grossfudger is having a field day this season. From Day One he was crowing. " Turned over by Luton at home, Jamesey. Last season you were thumping Tottenham and Liverpool and breaking even against Man U and Arsenal," he chortled.

"Fancy losing to Brighton at home, the bottom club? What a bunch of mugs," he scoffed.

The Millwall home draw evoked a similar reaction.

Travelling home from our 1-2 win away to Watford on New Year's Eve, Grossfudger returned to the fray.

"Well, Jamesey, you lot nearly managed to screw that one up big time. You bossed the first half and let them back again in the second. You were lucky the ref was fooled by the Brummagem reject's dive and gave you a penalty."

As he was speaking I could see the emergent new Wembley from the train window. It seemed to have grown in significance since the outward journey.

"Look, Grossfudger," I said smilingly, "we've just picked up nine points in six days, six of them away. Nothing you say can wind me up. Begone."

At the conclusion of what, in my experience, was a unique sequence of results for the time of year, I left Selhurst Park after our 2-0 victory over Leicester City (Jan 2), walking several feet above the pavement.

Four victories on the trot, 12 points - what football club supporter could hope for more?

I waited for Grossfudger to materialise and start whingeing about how abysmal we were in the first half (true) or sniggering about AJ's muffed penalty.

But did I hear from him? Not a peep...

Email Jamesey with any of your comments to Jevans3704@aol.com