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Khobar's Legacy

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Lol! I did feel a certain pressure to produce I have to admit!

Dear Mr Bobly. Mr Khobar asked me to pass on his enjoyment of your most excellent post.

Cheers

"One favour if you could please - could you convey my appreciation to NoblyBobly for the Kit Kat story? Just read it and it fair cheered me up :-) one small point though, he says we were on quite good terms with the dippers in 1984 - I wasn't, I f####### hated them just as much then as I do now."

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NoblyBobly    374

Dear Mr Bobly. Mr Khobar asked me to pass on his enjoyment of your most excellent post.

Cheers

"One favour if you could please - could you convey my appreciation to NoblyBobly for the Kit Kat story? Just read it and it fair cheered me up :-) one small point though, he says we were on quite good terms with the dippers in 1984 - I wasn't, I f####### hated them just as much then as I do now."

Nice to hear Khobar is in such good form!! It took me a good couple of hours to write the story but that post made it worth the effort. I think I speak for everyone at CFCnet when I wish Khobar a full return to health. And keep hating the Dippers Khobar, it never did anyone any harm! I hope our victory at the weekend also cheered him up .

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PeteRobbo    129

Following the departure of our dearly beloved Brenda and Stevie G from Liverpool, there was a concern that things may never be quite the same on this thread. So to keep things ticking along I’d like to recall an “incident” that I was involved in many years ago following a Chelsea/Liverpool clash at Stamford Bridge. I was a mere lad of 19 at the time and Chelsea was my life. The events here are true. Over the years some have doubted the story’s authenticity, some may have even stolen the story and claimed it as their own. Neither bothers me. I claim no copyright to the story and I will not try to defend or validate the sequence of events below. You can believe as little or as much as you want but it is my experience and that’s what counts. It is what it is and it is the story of …..The KitKat.

THE KITKAT

December 1st 1984. Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1. That still feels good just writing it. And back then it was against a proper Liverpool team, not shower that they throw onto the pitch these days. The line up included the likes of Ian Rush, Kenny Dalglish, Alan Hanson, Phil Neal, Bruce Grobbelaar to name a few. We had the team that John Neal built. Dixon, Speedie, Nevin, Spackman , Bumstead etc. and on our day we could beat just about anyone. December 1st 1984 was our day. It was though, less of a grudge match in those days. We actually got on quite well with the Dippers back then but that was probably because we never won anything! Chelsea glory was a distant dream and still a good 20 years away.

After the game many pints were consumed in my local Chelsea boozer. Several hours later and two sheets to the wind, I ‘high fived’ everyone I knew (and didn’t know) in the bar and headed for home. As I left the pub the first spots of rain had started to fall. The dark skies looked threatening and it wasn’t long before the heavens opened. It came down in sheets and waves. I pulled up the hood of my big Parker but it was a pointless exercise. By the time I got to Clapham Junction I was a drowned rat. Even when I got onto the platform the rain was finding a way under the wooden roof to soak me further. I checked the train times. I only had about five minutes to wait but the on-platform café was looking warm, dry and inviting. I pushed open the glass door and went inside.

“Cup of tea and a KitKat please” I asked cheerily.

Both items were pushed silently in front of me. The Jamaican lady behind the counter had a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp but she wasn’t going to spoil my evening. “Thank You!” I answered maintaining my happy disposition. I paid for my items and searched for a table. Jeez it was busy in here! Everyone must have had the same idea. With no free table available I sat myself down at an occupied table and found myself staring into one of the strangest faces I’d ever seen. He was probably in his sixties with a fattish round face and an extraordinary mass of unkempt curly grey hair . He had a mass of eyebrows which like his hair shot off in all directions, wild woolly and out of control. Nasal hair jutted disturbingly from his nostrils and headed down in the direction of a large tash. There was no getting away from it, it was a classic scousers eighties tash. He was a Pool supporter and on closer inspection I spotted a little bit of red and white scarf popping out from under his collar. But the thing that distressed me most about the odd man sitting opposite were his eyes. As my mum used to say he had “one eye looking at you and one eye looking for you”. Each eye moved completely independently of the other but strangely neither seemed to point in the same direction at the same moment.

Under normal circumstances I would have made eye contact and struck up a casual conversation. “Good game pal! Better luck next time. Our second goal was probably off side. Are you local or are you travelling back tonight?”

As it was I couldn’t tell if he was looking straight at me or straight out the window. I decided to leave it. My train would be here in a minute anyway. I took a sip of my tea, picked up my Kit Kat, broke off a finger and started to munch.

What happened next stopped me mid-munch. Very very slowly his hand started moving towards the centre of the small round table in the direction of my KitKat. He picked it up, calmly broke off a finger, replaced the bar on the table and proceeded to slowly eat it! I was in unknown territory here. How was I to react? Was he being provocative? Had he realized I was a Chelsea supporter? My Chelsea colours were hidden beneath my huge Parker so how could he know? Were scousers now so shameless about stealing that now they would do it right under your very nose? Maybe he was just a bit mad? I decided to just play it cool and front this one out. I narrowed my gaze directly at his disturbing eyes and took another sip of tea. I then reached out and picked up the KitKat, broke off another finger then replaced the last remaining finger back on the table. As I munched I maintained my gaze at all times. Then to my disbelief I watched as his hand once again moved slowly across the table toward the final chocolate finger. I could hear my train pulling into the platform but I was focused and completely in the zone. With the speed of a striking Cobra, with the agility of a Kerry Dixon bicycle kick at the Clock End, with the accuracy of a David Speedie head butt to the bridge of the nose, my hand shot out and grabbed the final piece of KitKat from right beneath his fat hairy fingers! Almost in one movement I swivelled on my chair and shot out of the café before jumping onto my train.

As I sat down in the carriage I could see him looking at me through the café window…. well one eye was looking at the front of the train and the other was looking at the back but I sensed he could see me. So I held up my prize and pulled away the silver foil. Then in exaggerated slow motion I proceeded to eat the final finger as if it were the most exquisite thing ever to pass my lips. The guard blew his whistle but just before the train moved away I performed my ‘coup de gras’, my final ‘dagger in the heart’. I stood up, turned towards my opponent and threw open my Parker to reveal my Chelsea colours.

“WHO ARE YA! WHO ARE YA! WHO ARE YA! ” I bellowed at the top of my voice. The whole carriage turned to look at me but I didn’t care. We had done ‘em on the football pitch and now we had done ‘em at Clapham Junction station. Even today I can still remember the look on his defeated face as the train pulled away from the station. Through the dark and the rain and the misted up café window- one eye looking at me and one eye looking for me. Victory was indeed sweet in every sense of the word!

I slumped into my seat incredibly pleased with myself and bathed in the afterglow. This was a story that I would be telling to my grandchildren. In years to come I would be in a bar somewhere. A mate would shout over from across the room “Hey Nobs, this bloke hasn’t heard your KitKat story!” I would give an exaggerated sigh and say “Ok, Ok tell him to line me up a pint and I’ll begin”.

An overly loud voice snapped me out of my daydream “tickets please ,tickets please!” hollowed the guard as he made his way through the carriage. Now where was that ticket? I started rummaging through the many pockets in my Parker. As my hand reached the bottom of a deep side pocket I froze. For a brief moment it felt like the world had stopped turning. My heart started racing and I started to feel sick. I slowly pulled out my hand. For what must have been quite sometime I just stared at the item retrieved. It was of course my new, fresh, un-opened …… bar of KitKat!

I've only just found this Nobly. First class mate. Absolutely first class!

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Johnny Blue    21

^ Jeez, PR, it's taken you three days to discover the highlight of this already-wonderful thread? I think you're just trying to make out you've got a life outside of CFCnet!

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Just imagine the gush of released pent-up press prose if the scum win tomorrow as the delicious desert to the joy of Arse on Tuesday. The press coverage will make it feel like living in the days leading up to the 1971 FA Cup Final. There's a lot to enjoy about following Chelsea in the 21st century, you just have to accept the Press are still living in the 20th century.

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Ruudboy    135

How pleasant: the Dippers can't force a win at home, and our friends from the Lane take a loss at Anderlecht. "It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas" (sings)

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How pleasant: the Dippers can't force a win at home, and our friends from the Lane take a loss at Anderlecht. "It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas" (sings)

Well said Mr Moon. Hopefully, soon there will be no more Klop or Kop just the clip-clip of the virtual horse drawn hearse carrying the metaphorical corpse of LFC .

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Ruudboy    135

The problem is that the Jurgenistas would only view bankrupcy as a challenge: who ever heard a scouser not being able to lay his hands on a little hard-earned? Somebody else's, of course. Nope, the only way they will qualify for RIP on their headstone is for them to be given a thorough going over by somebody totally hopeless. Sporting Khalsa anybody? Or Leeds at a pinch. With Louise Rednapp's hubby commentating. The stuff of good dreams.

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Skinny Legs    0

Shambolic

Hopeless

Empty

Inept

Spineless

Shameful

Embarrassing

If you take the first letter from each of these words, add them together, and that will give you an accurate assessment of Herr Klopps first game in charge at Anfield

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Paul Joyce of the Daily Excess on Klopp "He had wanted to see, feel and smell the arena for the first time".

No-one needs to visit Anfield to smell it. I can smell it from South London. To be fair to Paul Joyce he does now seem to realise that Pool are so dire they'll be very hard to fix which is a big improvement on the days when he was helping Slippy G masquerade as the club's saviour.

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