Last year I was at the legendary Half Moon in Putney watching a Jimi Hendrix tribute act called Are You Experienced?.
‘Jimi’ was comfortably in his sixties, sporting a silk neckerchief, ruffled shirt, and a paisley headband, which may or may not have concealed tabs of acid.
For the grand finale, he coaxed a woman up from the front row who - and I mean no disrespect - had a real “Pauline from marketing” vibe about her. Fuelled by a bottle and a half of Sauvignon Blanc, Pauline began uninhibitedly gyrating against his amplifier during a rendition of Foxy Lady.
‘Jimi’ leaned into the microphone and, in a thick Brummie accent, purred: “Give it up for Pauline. You’ve made an old man forget his aches and pains”. He then liberally doused his Fender Stratocaster in lighter fluid and set the whole thing ablaze.
Did that performance reach the hallucinogenic, mythic heights of Hendrix at Woodstock? No. Was I entertained? Unquestionably.
Which brings me neatly to Craven Cottage.
It appears our board’s masterplan to finally end Fulham’s major trophy drought is to simply become the world’s premier Real Madrid tribute act. We’ve signed their former manager, snapped up two of their brightest prospects, and if you look back at last season’s all-white home strip, it’s clear the kit design was just a subtle soft-launch for the entire operation.
There is something beautifully simplistic about copying the homework of the world’s most-successful club; it all feels a bit Only Fools and Horses. You can practically hear Del Boy leaning across the table at Nelson Mandela House, whispering to a bewildered Tony Khan: “In order to be elite, Tony my son, you’ve got to start acting elite.“
In truth, Fulham are becoming the Madrí Excepcional of the Premier League. For the uninitiated, Madrí is that “authentic” Spanish lager brewed exclusively in Burton-upon-Trent. It is essentially just Carling rebranded as a premium continental drop: a bog-standard British staple wearing a dogtooth flatcap and pretending it just hopped off a flight from Madrid. That is us.
If this transformation continues at its current rate, expect to see some subtle operational shifts around the ground. Prepare for mountain-high piles of salted sunflower seed shells covering the floor of the Hammy End, expect white handkerchiefs to be waved furiously at referees after dodgy calls, and warm-up those vocal chords for renditions of Hala Fulham.
Will our budget-conscious Galácticos project reach the European-dominating heights of the Santiago Bernabéu? Obviously not. This season, we’re the coifed bloke squeezing his paunch into a Rhinestone suit. David Fauxie. The Clone Roses.
As the now-retired chant goes “We’re not Real Madrid…”, but can we have fun pretending to be them? ¡Sin duda!
Slack Babbath?
Rollin Stoned et al is a trip not missed.
As is Pitch Perfect George Cooper :)
COYW