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Crushed backs and other celebrations May 12, 2012

Posted by normanmonkey in QPR.
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I was fine until about half-an-hour ago but now I’m like Martin Sheen in the opening scene of Apocalypse Now. Alone with absolutely nothing on TV, pacing despite being declared medically unfit to stand, swigging a cheap rose I’d sniffily declared not to my taste at 6pm. In fifteen hours time Stoke kick-off against Bolton, a unlikely, but still very possible win for the latter and QPR are relegated. Unless QPR can get a point away at Man City. And that’s not going to happen.

Things couldn’t be worse: following medical advice I have spent the last two days lying flat in bed after having my spine crushed by a publican when Djibril Cissse scored a winner in our last Rangers game. Waiting months for a weekend of sunshine only to be told by the doctor to lie down indoors. And I never in my life believed my happiness would be relative to something that was happening in Stoke.

To compound matters I may just recover the ability to sit upright and walk just in time to watch the conclusion on television, sitting within arms reach of the publican, Lee Blewett in his pub The Bramley Inn.

In the past week the Man City – QPR game has become a matter of national debate. There is only one voice I’ve heard that entire time who has openly declared, with no hint of irony, they believe QPR will win: Lee Blewett.

It’s the kind of blind faith that has seen him travel all over the country full of vim only to witness in nine outings nine straight defeats and one solitary goal (compared to Chelsea’s six), so god knows what odds he is operating on for such a prediction, but despite all this evidence to the contrary, he will yet again experience the crushing disappointment that comes with confronting the odds with his hand on his crotch.

The tragic thing is this fixture and the need for Bolton not to win at Stoke coincides with the birthday party he’d organised for his partner.  Curious to how this would pan out I asked what the plans relating to football tomorrow, receiving the reply: “I am going to get her twatted tonight. Tomorrow is all about the footy’. Not a line I imagine we’ve seen oft used in the vaults of Mills & Boon.

Tomorrow one of us is going to need to watch the scores come in in a cage. I certainly don’t want him charging at me like an undersexed gorilla if Stoke or, god forbid, QPR score. The physio was amazed I’d been walking, driving and commuting into town after ligament strain he inflicted on my back. And it cost me fifty-five quid for he to tell me that. That’s the exact same sum I owe Blewett for the Chelsea away match he suggested we go to fortnight ago, all in the belief of a surprise result.

That finished 6-1 and he looked a broken man. Tomorrow the only man who may be broken is whoever is in reach at the final whistle and, with the state of my spine, I’ll be slowest out the blocks.

Djibril Cisse gave me whiplash (and I liked it) May 7, 2012

Posted by normanmonkey in QPR.
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There’s living proof in my sorry arsed form that it’s possible to suffer whiplash watching Queens Park Rangers. A split second after Djibril Cisse scored an 89th minute winner to pull us out of the relegation zone I found myself in a headlock of an adrenalin pumped publican who proceeded to throw me around the stratosphere of Shepherds Bush until I landed back in a broken heap in my seat. He was still roaring like a primal being as I was doing a spot-check to see if anything had been snapped off. Such are the dangers of last-minute winners in the battle to stay in the Premiership

Even in joy there appears to be agony. Today my neck and spine are a twisted and broken column of vertibrae, but at least we are out of the relegation zone with one game to go. Was it worth it? Absolutely. I’d have given a limb and an organ in order to put the tension to rest.

The girlfriend seemed genuinely shocked today when I described that moment as ‘one of the highlights in my life’. Let us be clear that my life has been extremely rewarding, but nothing exceptional and with so much of its leisure time spent either in the W12 this has largely consisted of dashed hopes, disappointment and abject failure.

Otherwise, and with the exception of maintaining a no-claims bonus, there have been no births, marriages, awards, first-places, mentions in dispatches, Time magazine editorials on my enriching contribution to society or any other accolades of any note.

‘What about time we climbed Dunns River Falls together in Jamaica?’ she asked. Well, yes, precisely. That can be a bought experience and didn’t involve emotional risk, especially as it was shared with thirty morbidly obese Americans in their swimming costumes waddling up from the rear. Hardly the stuff of Edmund Hilary and Sherpa Tensing.

Yesterday’s Cisse moment of seeing the ball hit the net was a spontaneous mass hysterical release of 17,000 people who invest most of their time and money into something that never actually comes off, who always fear the worst and get it delivered in abundance. The casualty wards of Uxbridge, Acton, Northolt and Notting Hill have probably never seen so many self-inflicted injuries all registered in the space of the same moment.

What we now have is hope and I will take being temporarily crippled for that. It will all be decided next Sunday and I will actually be in the pub of said landlord. There’s a chance I may die if we stay up, but it is a risk worth taking. God knows what he will do to me if we go down.