Box o' Matches, Guv'nor?

Gawd, these bloody crowds is rough at times; everyone pushing and shoving to get there, wherever 'there' is. All I wanna do is sell some boxes of matches and get back to my gaff.

"Two boxes, Sir?, 'ere you go. That'll be a shilling; thank you, Sir, and 'Appy New Year."

The youngsters are the worst, ya' know. They care not a jot for anyone, least of all an old soldier trying to make an honest buck in the Regimental town. They just push ahead, thrusting all aside in their charge, uncaring for the results of their actions. The bastards 'ave nearly 'ad me on my back more than once.

"Just the one box this time, Sir?

"Righty ho',

'Ere ya' go, thank you kindly, and an 'Appy New Year to yer' ".

Where was I?. Oh yes. We 'ad a right bunch of yobbo's down the other day, for the football match; pushin' and shovin' any and all, just because they could, I reckon. And all because they supported their Team. As if that's important; I ask yer'.

"Two boxes, was it Lady? There you go, thank you Madam, and I 'ope you 'ave a Good New Year"

Been on this pitch for years, me. Oh Yes; I has all me reg'lars, ya' know. They all know old George. I 'ad to go into the 'ospital last year for a while; I was coughin' fit to bust, but I knew all I really needed was the fresh air so I got myself out 'toot sweet' as they say, and came back to work my pitch.

"One box it is, Sir. Right you are; thank you, and an 'Appy New Year to you".

'Arry the Lad, who organises us in the area, was pleased as punch to see me, and soon hoofed out the impudent SOB who'd taken up residence on my pitch. 'Arry put 'im round the other entrance, the one in the Avenue. Not so much traditional trade there, but I 'ear as 'ow he done OK. I'd not wish ill on anyone, specially this time of year. It's bloody cold at times.

"Three boxes, Sir? Right you are. 'Ere you go, Sir. Thank you kindly, and an 'Appy New Year to you and yours."

Ey up, 'ere we go, the 'Eavy Mob's arrived. Look at 'em, yelling at the top of their voices as if they was going into battle; which I may add, they'd be shit scared to do. Load of poncey phonies with their "Official" outfits. I ask you, who'd pay to have a bloody advert on their shirt? And for a bloody washing machine at that. You seen the price of that gear? You'd think it was "Oat Cooture", that's what. And they never buy nothin' round 'ere. It's all done 'on line' whatever that means. Just half a step back and we'll let them pass.

"Two boxes, Sir? There ya' go, Sir: And 'ave an 'Appy New Year".

Oh yes, they really are the dregs, some of 'em. You can tell the real fans, you know. They are keen but thoughtful, if you know what I mean. They understand the game, not like some of those idiot pundits you see on TV. But I tell you, they are paying 'em far too much to prance about the field of play. And it's the real fans who pay for it; week after week.

"A large box was that Sir? Righty ho, there ya' are. Thank you kindly, Sir, and 'Appy New Year."

Then there was the time when a bunch of eejits from nowhere came to be The Team. Our lot flattened 'em six nil, and their so-called supporters went mental. Smashing this and that at the sheer injustice of them 'avin' a weaker side. A bunch of those bastards put me on my back and stole most of my takin's, I tell you.

"Two boxes, Sir? Righty ho, 'ere ya' go, Thank you kindly, Sir, and 'have an 'Appy New Year."

Fortunately for me a couple of decent lads happened to be around and showed them the error of their ways, so to speak; and got me most of my money, I may add.

Police? Don't make me larf, they spend a lot of time with forms and so on and the Beak will let them off with a caution or a suspended sentence.

But a couple of the lads from the old Regiment? No bother.

We're practically fam'ly, see?