hintonsboots

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

PG Wodehouse from the directors box.
Ah, what a jolly morning it was, dear chum! The sun beamed down upon us as we indulged in the quintessentially English pursuit of punting, navigating the tranquil waters with the finesse of seasoned oarsmen. Our hearts lightened further as we repaired to the Botanical Gardens, where libations flowed freely, and the fragrant blooms provided a most agreeable backdrop for our conviviality. Ah, but I must confess, my good fellow, I found myself obliged to decline young Shaun Barker’s entreaty for a round of ten-pin bowling, lest I risked forsaking the tranquility of our day’s pursuits. Instead, we ascended to the exalted environs of the director’s box, where great expectations filled the air like the scent of freshly-cut grass on a summer’s day.
And lo, as the match unfolded before us, it was young Sibley who, with a flick of his hair reminiscent of a dashing hero from the pages of a romantic novel, delivered a pass of such sublime weight and direction that even NML, blessed with the accuracy of a marksman, could not fail to convert it into the winning goal, thereby securing for Derby the coveted three points that now lay within our grasp like ripe fruit ready for the plucking. Indeed, our destiny, like a ship guided by a steady hand upon the helm, now rested firmly in our own hands.
Yet, let us not discount the valiant efforts of our adversaries from Cambridge United, who fought tooth and nail to thwart our aspirations. Wildsmith, our custodian between the sticks, displayed a fortitude akin to that of a one-legged war veteran, kicking and flapping with a determination that belied his circumstances. Our nerves, I must confess, were sorely tested, akin to the frayed edges of a well-read novel.
But now, dear friend, our attention turns to the grand spectacle that awaits us next Saturday, where we shall once again take to the field, this time against the venerable Simmo and his stalwart band of disciples. A single point, so they say, shall suffice to elevate us to the sunlit uplands of the Championship, where glory and adulation await like eager suitors at a debutante’s ball.
It shall be a contest of wits and wills, where the bobble-hatted tactical maestro Warne shall endeavor to marshal his forces with the precision of a seasoned general. Let us rally behind him, dear comrade, for victory is within our grasp, like a well-struck ball sailing towards the goalposts of destiny.

Sounds like a rare entry in my school report.

You will be if you get defibrillated mate.

You will be if you get defibrillated mate.

You will be if you get defibrillated mate.

Top man and a World class player 

Ugly, untidy, but better than nothing.
Coincidentally, my wife’s description of me.
 

Need more wine !