The summer so far: Stoke City

by Sir Barinold Winston-Smythe

A faint glimmer of hope has lain long upon the horizon this summer. Slowly, as the hazy mornings and sodden afternoons have slipped by, the opening weekend of the Greatest League in Her Majesty’s Commonwealth has stepped towards us. That is, of course, until this week of unparalleled social unrest, of looting, of destruction. It now appears that the rioting of the past few days is set to impact upon the commencement of the season at the top table of English football competition. As of today however, only two teams would appear to be affected – the Hotspurs of Tottenham, and the blue half of Merseyside; Everton.

A team most certain not to be adversely hindered by such ruffian rapscallions however, is my beloved Stoke City. You will note that the worst night of rioting in London fell upon a Tuesday. Stoke however, remained calm, assured and poised for the long throw of justice to be wielded at a first hint of impropriety. As we have heard many times since our triumphant return to and consolidation within the Premier League, Stoke is not a place you’d want to travel to on a wet and windy Tuesday night. Not for the likes of Fabregas, Torres and Modric. And not for the disgusting social warts who besmirched the streets of this country’s finest cities earlier this week.

Following last season’s majestic triumph in reaching the final of the Football Association Cup, only to be duly dispatched by the surging Manchester City team, our fine man at the helm, Sergeant Major Tony Pulis – a certainty for a knighthood if my machinations to honour this fellow’s contribution to life in Stoke bear fruit – seems poised to instigate a phase of change at the ‘Roar’ Britannia Stadium. SM Pulis has oft spoken of his aim in establishing The Potters as a Premier League force over the three years since promotion. Now firmly ensconced in the top tier like a belligerent gunner defending his hill top position against an onslaught of onrushing Zulu warriors, it would appear the time is nigh for us to develop an entertaining streak to compliment our Best of British solidity and stoicism.

Jonathan ‘walking wounded’ Woodgate has been brought in to provide a classical officer’s influence to the rearguard. Alongside SM Pulis’ two most trusted sergeants, Ryan Shawcross and Robert Huth, his entrance seems designed to provide a more cultured approach to these uncompromising young stalwarts. City’s foundations have been set in stone with these two stallions. With Woodgate’s direction and words of wisdom, we may begin to see the foundation stones being sculpted into a construction of magnificent splendour.

Much has been scribbled in the pages of football periodicals regarding Stoke City’s reliance on a ‘direct’ brand of football. I for one, describe such heresy, as poppycock covered piffle. They are nought but the nonsensical ramblings of former, defeated Champions, afraid and jealous of a fortified home, the very site of which casts dark shadows upon their approaching hearts. Following the acquisition of the mercenary, Jermaine ‘The Rogue’ Pennant, and his integration into the sturdy arms of the Pulis ranks, in the second half of last season the side developed a dashing, cavalier approach to wing-play. Such play has long since proven the tipple of choice for City fans schooled in the arts of none other than the original winger, Sir Stanley Matthews. His apparent relation, Sir Matthew of Etherington, provided deliveries of such stunning consistency that Her Majesty’s Royal Mail were reportedly in discussions with him to work part time in a consultancy role. With the excellently enormous Private Kenwyne Jones leading the line up front (although I must admit, his hair is need of a jolly good tidy up) we looked every part the ravishing rapiers to spike the hearts of – some would say, not I – more ‘prestigious’ opponents.

What is most certainly needed as an addition to the rank and file, is a true gentleman warrior. A musketeer to bestride the centre of the pitch. An artisan to direct the play, conducting Pulis’ men, with flourishes of calm coordination. A central midfielder in the ilk of one Joey Barton has been mooted. A supremely talented philosopher footballer indeed is this chap Barton, but one with a history of speaking out, oft against the desired line. If there is one thing SM Pulis and his Sergeant’s Shawcross and Huth reveal, it is that INSUBORDINATION WILL NOT BE TOLERATED. SM Pulis is Sergeant Major for a reason. He knows what is best for the team and be damned the views of the privates. If you are told to jump on that ruddy grenade, you ruddy-well better, or the consequences will certainly be dire. One would feel Monsieur Barton may not quite fall into rank with the ease of, say, Pennant. If one man is capable of taming the beast however, it is SM Pulis.

I feel the winds of change flowing through this land of my fathers. This glorious land of coasts and valleys, cities and fields has evolved and flourished in the face of some unspeakable adversity throughout the centuries. Always we stand revered, leading the world, pointing the direction of truth, of honesty, of the truly Great British Stiff Upper Lip. Stoke City under SM Pulis epitomises this unyielding, powerful, stoic attitude in the realm of football.

The youths of the cities should look at these fellows and learn. Life is not about trainer shoes and fat-screen iPoos and about what is owed to you. Like the boys from the Britannia, life should be about hard-work, discipline and success.

Sir Barinold is the founder of the St Rogues Academy – an academy, focused on the implementation of draconian disciplinary measures, in order to instigate stoically stunted individuals primed for a life in Her Majesty’s colonial services. He regularly contributes scrawled upon napkins to publications such as ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time: The Domestic Abusers Journal’ and the daily chronicle ‘What’s all this then?’. Sir Barinold – throughout his travails to far-off lands such as Scunthorpe, and throughout negotiations with skinflint Eskimo – is Headers & Volleys’ ‘most valued writer who regularly wears a cravat, 2011’.