Nick Dunmore of the excellent Fisted Away has ever so graciously contributed a guest satirical piece on that lover of long-range goals, Frank Lampard. Enjoy!

Love was in the air in SW6. It smelt the same as usual – it had the familiar pungency, but tonight it was mixed with something new. Something unmistakably West London; stale onions frying, sweating police horses and overheated coffee, all combined in one bri-nylon shirt. The miasma skulked up from Fulham Broadway, took a left onto the Fulham Road, and floated deep down under the Shed End. There, in the bowels of Stamford Bridge, and also the bowels of Frank Lampard – for these are one and the same – there was an unearthly rumbling.

Frank rolled backwards onto the Official Chelsea Club Shop Towelling Cloth. He was spent, sated and satisifed for the first time in eight years. After 131 goals and 131 goal celebrations, he had finally got to third base with his badge.

Frank gazed into the single eye of the graphic representation of what used to clearly be a lion, but now looks more like a dragon with whiplash. “You are everything to me. Your layered chest panelling, coupled with the 3D Formotion cut, allows complete freedom of movement of my lips. The waffled Climacool fabric and mesh panelling across major sweat zones increase comfort and ensure – heaven knows how – I remain cool and dry”

The next day at training, the midfielder was unable to contain himself. The impressionable, yet sullied Gaël Kakuta came bounding up, asking for all the juicy, cloth-based details.

“Did the badge have a sister? Or did she like tapping? Or did she like being tapped, the filthy ironed-on tramp?”

Frank tried to remember his father’s words ‘A gentleman never badge-kisses and tells‘. He tried to remember his father’s look. Hell, he tried to remember his father’s name. But all was lost. Everyone could tell from his wry smile, the new way he carried himself, and the tell-tale slobbers leaking through his training bib.

Sensing that Lampard was straying from the flock, Carlo Ancelotti took him aside to give him ‘the talk’. But Frank was now lost to him forever. The apex of the diamond was flawed, he had become too close to the very fabric of the club itself. It was a scratchy, man-made fabric. Their embraced faltered, as Frank cast his manager aside and swaggered back to the club shop.

For more football tomfoolery, visit Nick and Rob´s proper site at Fisted Away

No related posts.