This Charming Dan

Hey ho, popsicle toes! 

And greetings from the sun-soaked, promotion-fuelled metaphorical island of 'Las Ryman Premier Here I Come'.

It's been a frenetic couple of weeks, guys and gals. But as my old uncle Jerry used to say, what makes you tired makes you happy; and what makes you happy really should make you tired! So, let me fill you in...

The high price of the fame game

First off, following my last post, I had that lovely little Turkish fella Erhun Oztumer all over my long-legged ass on the social sites and personal email channels. Now, it was very touching for a few days. But it just got too much. He was hounding me for autographs, begging for invites to the top-tier south London celeb-giraffe bashes, subtly arranging accidental meet-ups outside the East Dulwich Dorchester for non-league paparazzi. 

Now look. I love the guy, I seriously do, but I want this to be known and stated on record that the Turkish legend has been mobbing me of late, so I had to tell him to ease back a touch and give me some creative space. Just for a couple of weeks. I can tell you with happy heart that he respected the decision, the legals were swiftly resolved and we move on. He's a beautiful man. Nuff said.

Please, please, please...

Anyhows, following that heady phase, I've been taking in a little “me time” these past few days, I don't mind telling you. Amidst the day job of United Nations diplomatic advisory committees and the rushing wild dreams of promotion of an evening-time - to which I seem to be very partial this month - I have also been frequently diving into my back catalogue of Smiths albums. 

And here's the doobie... I've realised that the connections between our wonderful Dulwich Hamlet and those jovial-yet-melancholic Morrissey and Marr-penned gems are multifarious and spookily striking. Check it out, kids... For Hand In Glove, read Phil Wilson and his masterful, dominant goalkeeping prowess. I hear Panic, and I think of the anxious, dishevelled defensive mayhem I witness every time I see Nyrun Clunis marauding down the wing towards an opposition's penalty box. And above all I see Daniel Carr climb majestically in the air to meet an Ellis Green peach of a cross and the opening chords of This Charming Man just melt through my brain and slide deep into my soul. 

Hot on the heels of that penultimate thought, I leave you with this final one...

Three years of heartbreak. Leatherhead. Injury time. Bognor. Missed penalty. Gavin Rose. Hope. Liquid football. We are ready, my friends. Come join the fucking army! 

Carry on up the Ryman.