The Gospel According to St. James's

The Gospel According to St. James's (another part)

Also taken from the Book of Ruth-less

And from the Park of St. James had there come much grief and Gate of Gallows Humour for they had taken unto themselves false prophets for many years.

They had listed to the Shepherd that didst scorn their womenfolk and couldst not pick a decent coach even if it had National Express writ upon it.

To the Lard Ashley didst they conspire thence, and lo, he did neck full pints on terraces high and mixed amongst the merry host e’en though he did talk and hawk his wares like a two-bit chav.


'I am the Lard and I move in mysterious ways my blunders to perform'

And unto them brought He the prodigal King Kev, who had much loitered on couches of punditry and made witless predictions uponst the quality of David Batty’s nerve.

And woe alack the day, Kev was but the old-born King and one visit from the Wise Man didst send him fleeing like a big girl’s blouse in a strong cross-wind.

Yea, and thence unto the Angel of the North ventured the Lard and so sorely tempted was The Shearer that he did set amongst the brainless sheep of the baa-codes with hope in his heart and an absolute dunce as his assistant.

But The Shearer couldst not save them. And sat he back between the Lawro and the Hansen – all three of them the Blather, the Glum and the Mostly Boast –

And still did the Terraces of Toon run rank with rivers of tears – and twas the second tier to which they ran - as the Lard Ashley didst lead them into the Shadow of the Valley of Debt.

And yet to some there appeared a star in the North-East. Yea, but there were no shepherds to follow that star, nor Wise men still hanging around cos the Lard was a mate. And yet still the star glimmered.

For it was told that there was somewhere Stable. And so twas that left with no other fucking option they found a new King. Chris. Jesus! Chris?

For he was there and had been there all along. Under their overbunged noses. Lying betweenst the Lard and the Lambias.

All about him the beasts were quiet; the Ass and the Ox (or Joey and Sol as we now know them). No sound there came until, upon the midnight air came there a tune for the wholly Chris. Aye, a Carroll. A Chris-must Carroll with a good movement in the middle and a lovely finish.

And unto the new-found Chris many more were born anew: and the Toon Army did redouble its faith. For The Chris was amongst them, both he and Kevin the First Noel-an. Dispatched were the Mackem and the Villain.

And Chris didst restore vision to those that had been blind (not least the lad Coloccini). And lo didst he entreat his followers to cast their nets like another side and lo the nets didst bulge with goals. And the success-starved Toonites didst dine out on this news, for Chris could make a lot of pretty average fare seem enough to feed the 50,000. For in short he had turned their Whine into Slaughter.

And Chris offered his home to the lost and lowly, the forgotten and forlorn: to the Dyer and the Krul; to the Perch and the Gosling; to Alan Smith and Xisco (no, not the twat who did The Thong Song).



And yet still the Lard looked down from over a stack of ever-multiplying chins and though he saw that it was good (well half-good any road) he was sore afraid that no one was talking about Newcastle much any more.

For, thought he, what is this Kingdom of St.James if it is not a complete and utter shambles. Why tis a nothingness. Tis a veil of mid-table mediocrity and fuck me, if I’d’ve wanted that I’d have brung back Allardyce.

And yeah though the mild and popular Chris didst unto his disciples give a severe bollocking after they didst unto the Dorrans and the Odemwingie grant the freedom of the Hawthorns, twas not still enough to save him.

And the Portliest Pirate didst call him in and did wash his hands of him. And alas Chris was cast out into the wilderness, for like Sir Bobby he knew not what he had done.


‘Lard, Lard, why hast thou forsaken me?’

And to the Twitter went the disciples to spread the Word: and yea even those that didst always think the Geordie Bottlers were a bit of a laughing stock didst bellow unto the tops of their voices.

And over his last cuppa Chris turned to his disciples and was unsurprised to find that the Shithead Lard Ashley had entrusted all he despised to St. Peter of Beardsley. (Steve Stone - as in dropping like a...)