Where throstles dare
LOOK, I know we’re all very upset about last weekend, but think of it this way: the RSPB are absolutely bloody ecstatic.
I’ll tell you.
After all, winning the FA Cup is celebrated in some very modern ways these days. Should Liverpool pick up the pot at Wembley in May for instance, then Steven Gerrard will perhaps be named the Anglican Bish. of L. in celebration given he won’t be playing football no more.
Should Villa carry it off, Tim Sherwood might treat himself to a new suit and finally ditch the gilet.
But away back in 1892, we were pretty out there ourselves when it came to milking the very most out of flattening Aston Villa in the FA Cup Final to the tune of three goals – count ‘em – to a big, fat nil.
In the immediate aftermath of it all, we grabbed hold of a tin of gold leaf that we’d kept on file for just such an occasion, and covered the match ball in it, then had a suitable inscription painted upon it so that nobody was left in any doubt that those Villa boys had take one hell of a beating. Got it Stan?
Still, there was something missing. And so, we summoned up a throstle, allowed it a hearty breakfast and a final ciggie, and released the contents of a Magnum 45, the most powerful handgun in the world, upon it.
Sadly, there wasn’t much of the throstle left after that, so we fetched another one, poisoned it’s Trill, waited for it to fall off the perch and join the choir invisible, stuffed it and glued it on top of the ball. How’s that for post-modern Mr Damien Hirst?
All of which leaves one question unanswered. Never mind winning the FA Cup, where’s our Turner prize got to?