All Hail McLaren thou shalt be king hereafter!

Is this a brolly which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A brolly of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I open.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy handle and dudgeon gouts of Avram's blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one halfworld
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Brady's offerings, and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
With Sullivan's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my Dutch accent, which verbs I mispronounce, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, West Ham lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

(A phone rings)

I go, and it is done; this call invites me.
Hear it not, Hammers fans; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.