The Albion Urban Dictionary

You know the urban dictionary right? I’ve often thought there should be an Albion version. Here it is only it’s not in alphabetical order because I can’t be arsed.

Hitting The Roof: Refusing to continue with something perfectly reasonable despite evidence to the contrary. E.g. “I can’t drink the other half of that Vinho Verde – I think it’s hit the roof.”

Buying a Harley: Going to the supermarket and coming back with something utterly inadequate for the price. E.g. “darling look at these sausages. Brand new and only £8.99 a pack”. “They’re only 35% meat. I suspect you’ve bought a Harley”. Not to be confused with “buying a Harley Davidson” which is the act of buying something you are 20 years too old for during a mid life crisis.

Premature CryPaculation: Getting very drunk and celebrating a victory without realising your rivals’ opportunity for revenge is just around the corner

Grabbing an Oscar: Spending all night in a nightclub with a girl who is high maintenance and arrogant but rather attractive before binning her for a better looking but far more circumspect girl at 1.55 am. Risky but highly rewarding. Not to be confused with the LA version which basically means “stealing a film award”

Evacuating the Away End: Taking a shit where you shouldn’t.

Entering Dick’s: Queuing up for half an hour for a badly poured pint in a strip lit pub named after a legend. Not to be confused with the Kemp Town version which doesn’t use the apostrophe.

Caspering: Smoking a cigarette nervously before deputising for someone much better than you.

Making an NSC of it: When your wife comes back from the supermarket with white bread and you spend 54 minutes hectoring her about the better quality of wholemeal before retracting, contradicting yourself and cutting up your Nectar card.

Barbering: The act of being in a pub and making your mate get the round that includes the pork scratchings and shots. When confronted tell them it’s their fault because of the time they decided to get the round in.

Flavour Roulette: Giving your pie flavour choice up to fate by joining the queue manned by the kid with more zits than IQ points.

Concourse Dogging: Removing a barely cooked sausage from a rock hard bun in the vain hope of salvaging something exciting from a thoroughly unpleasant experience.

Blue and White glasses: A medical condition. The main symptoms being that you always think it’s our penalty, you’re convinced Palace robbed us in the playoffs and you persist with the belief that Craig Mackail-Smith has a good first touch.

To Upson (aka reading the game): Being talked down from being a dick after a few pints before you realise you’ve even done it. i.e. “I’m going to smack that geezer if he keeps looking at me” “Leave it – he’s a six foot five steroid addict” “Well Upsoned”

Brezzing: The art of doing cartwheels past the boss in a vain attempt to highlight the fact that the other guy who could replace the employee who is far better then either of you is currently out on a fag break.

Bruno: A male who is renowned for delivering unbelievably gymnastic and thrilling sexual performances in the first two dates before rapidly adopting the pipe and slippers. Again not to be confused with the US version which means an arrogant midget with addiction issues who can somehow pastiche any popular musical style of the last 30 years except any good ones.

Sending a Kazenga: Writing a text message when you are drunk that is so inexplicable that no one in the universe other than you knows what you meant.

Culinary Reality Removal: What you’ve had if you complain about the quality of food in a football ground. Given I defined Flavour Roulette and Concourse Dogging I’ve probably had one.

OGH (Oh Gary Hart): Brighton alternative to OMG. E.g. “OGH those slingbacks are totes amazeballs”

Bolton at Home. Spanish Day? Perfect Day.

I have been carrying a couple of monkeys on my back for a very long time but now they are gone.

The first has been there since 6th August 2011 though at first I didn’t realise it was a monkey. It was quite small. More like a hamster or gerbil. And who doesn’t like a frisky hamster playing on their back? At least until it poos on you. Recently though, particularly towards the end of the Poyet reign it became massive. More like a gorilla than a monkey. I was having trouble walking. So were the team. That monkey was that we had not won coming from behind since we beat Doncaster on that August day when the stadium opened properly and everything eventually went to script in the 98th minute.

There were times under Poyet when, if we conceded first, it would take every bit of willpower I had not to just go down to the concourse and make the students behind the tills play an extended game of guess the pie flavour, safe in the knowledge that we couldn’t win the game. Not any more. Another comeback win has been achieved. Bye bye gorilla.

The other monkey has always been around the same size and has been there since my birthday last year. It was known as the irrational hatred of Bolton for ruining my birthday monkey. Bolton was my birthday game last season and with best mate replaced by brother as seat companion for the day due to best mate working abroad I made the most of it and we hit the pubs in town early. So I was in remarkably good cheer when I arrived to watch the most frustrating football game of my life.

We dominated. Absolutely all over them. Bolton were metaphorically bending over almost begging for an arse whipping in a worryingly submissive manner but every time we got the chance to inflict it we pulled away, disgusted. We missed chance after chance after chance after chance. Eventually we scored simply because the law of averages said we had to and the three points we richly deserved looked to be heading our way. Until the defence switched off and David Ngog scored with about the last kick of the game to equalize. Here is a birthday present. WHICH I’M NOT GOING TO LET YOU HAVE. Cue howl of frustration.

It’s fair to say that between that game and the fact that Dougie Freedman, ex Palace icon, is still their manager, there was a real will among our fans to beat them this time round. So it was the perfect day for the club’s marketing department to do something special and cringy considering how well the opera singer and clackers had worked against Palace. Saturday was declared Spanish Day and indeed, as I walked round the ground, many people had gone to the trouble of dressing as a Mexican to salute our Catalans, Italians and Argentines. In the first half it was to backfire horribly.

Bolton came out in possibly the most hideous modern kit yet conceived with the possible exception of Liverpool’s third choice colours. Someone hadn’t told their kit designer that players these days tend to wear luminous orange hi viz boots. Either that or they hadn’t told them that said boots would look absolutely horrible underneath a luminous orange hi viz kit. It looked like they’d been dressed by someone who was a massive casualty during the rave era but had now lucked themselves a job in health and safety. “Why is our new kit so bright?” you could imagine Dougie moaning to which the only answer is presumably “you can’t be too careful”.

Anyway, back to backfiring marketing gimmicks. We controlled possession without looking particularly great in the first half yet Bolton had the clearest chance and, even though they didn’t convert it, they went in one up at the break. The chance? As we cleared out of defence the referee paid a bit too much attention to the balloon that had come on the pitch, presumably to celebrate fiesta, and not enough attention to the ball. Not only did the ref get in the way, he played in Bolton with a perfect through ball. Thank Christ PIG saved it.

Undeterred, Spanish Day was then crowned by Spanish Dave scoring an own goal. It was one of those comedy, slow motion, own goals that you can’t believe has actually happened. The ball is still virtually going in as I type and yet no one will or can stop it. Happy fucking Spanish Day.

What Oscar said at half time I’m not sure but it must have been along the lines of whatever the Catalan is for ‘throw the kitchen sink at them’ because that’s exactly what we did. Kazenga in particular looked liberated as he teased and tormented Bolton’s defence, helped and egged on by a ebullient Stephen Ward. Rohan Ince dominated midfield in a colossal performance. Buckley briefly looked back to his old self scoring the third. But, although he didn’t score or get the sponsor’s award it was Kaz who shined the brightest. We equalized from an own goal from a set piece making it even in every sense but then kicked on scoring another two goals in the next four minutes. The Amex went progressively more mental each time and a thousand fake Dirty Sanchez tashes were thrown in the air. On the third goal a small contingent of Bolton fans left. It’s hard to know if they wanted to lynch Dougie or the kit designer.

After that we were never in serious trouble though the bringing on of Bruno in to a role that can only be known as the ‘make a nuisance of yourself’ position upset the formation a little. PIG had to make a couple more good saves and that was it. Bolton got what they should have had last season and we had a come from behind win. All that was left was to have a couple more Cervezas and pelt the train staff with rotten tomatoes.

QPR Away – all a bit of a blur

I don’t watch football I really care about in pubs much any more because the nerves involved lead to me drinking very, very fast. The last England game I saw in the pub I probably spent as much time at the bar as watching and that’s with ‘double parking’. On Sunday it was quite fortunate I had the children and was therefore stone cold sober.

Yesterday however will not go down as one of the best of my life. In fact I think it cost me about three grand all in. Yes, three thousand pounds. Three bags of sand. A lot of money.

First the clutch and fly-wheel went in our car. Then our house buying chain finally collapsed leaving us with mortgage and solicitors bills and nowhere to move to. So I decided to open the wine.

Then I realised our game was on radio. To be fair I must have been drinking fairly quickly already because I spent a deal of time listening to the Arsenal game, having not been able to tell the difference between Radio 5 Live and Radio 5 Live Extra. However, with the correct channel finally located I proceeded to listen to a QPR only commentary from whoever it was who doesn’t get Champions League games and an ex Palace player with an agenda.

This in turn had me convinced we were about to be turned over at any time. So I got nervous. And drank faster. This had the rather pleasant effect of making me care less about the game with each passing minute before deciding, at full time, that a 0-0 draw at QPR was possibly the greatest result ever. I bounded* to bed.

*staggered

This morning it still looks like a good result however. I still fully expect QPR to be up there at the end of the season. What’s more Keith Andrews who I wasn’t AT ALL sure about seems to have done sterling defensive work while we wait for Bridders to return. I’m happy when players prove me wrong because they’re good.

Now we have Bolton at home. Bottom Bolton. Bolton who could sack Dougie if we win. Bolton who we OWE for that travesty last season, the draw they pinched when had it been a boxing match they would have been stopped in the sixth and taken straight to hospital. I suspect I will have a couple of ales beforehand but certainly not a whole bottle of Australia’s finest. I can’t afford it.