Thursday, 18 October 2007
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
Match 9 Season 3 vs. Just For Football
(DIRECTOR'S CUT)
Date: 10/10/07 Time: 21:15
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan
“Hey, the bulletproof are so resilient, to every fool with an opinion, they never break”
I write this report nearly two weeks late. Because I’ve been recklessly bored. When I get like this, I do undeniably stupid things – knock people off ladders; take upskirt photos; cripple e-mail systems; jump out onto rooftops with no discernable way of getting back in. Without natural highs, you manufacture artificial ones. My mood’s hardly been helped by another Molly default victory, limiting my football adrenaline fix to twice in a month.
Had to make do with the two England national sides doing their best to fill up the smoke-free pubs, and whilst Wilkinson kicks like a mule, Rooney tackles like a donkey, clearly forgetting which code he was playing. A drop kick wide of the posts, and a parried shot straight into an onrushing attacker looked all too familiar. An artificial low. Yet an expected low.
The Mollys would never use a plastic pitch, the brisk cold weather or a referee with video replay facilities as an excuse for another soppy defeat. We’d blame ringers, shit passing and a referee without video replay facilities. I was looking over my report when we last played these cowboys, and my description of the opposition bares only the vaguest resemblance to the group of disparate individuals we were playing against tonight. Our line-up from last time saw only Michael replaced by Nobby, and was hardly unlike Erikkson being replaced by McClaren. Yet there were no running riots from us, no lack of moxy from them. Where was their inadequate keeper; where was their body-odour enamoured spokesman; who were these fuckers?
We conceded early and fast. Seemingly there is space between Matt’s legs, as the ball so discovered, and the Mollys fell immediately onto their backside in a macrocosm echo, as the opposition scored with us rough twice more. The opposition were playing with rhythm, like a misdiagnosed aneurysm; they played with pace, like an artificially assisted heart; they played with guile, like Van Damme in Street Fighter The Movie.
You couldn’t shake the unnatural feeling that Just For Football had hired a hooker (rugby reference) to artificially assist them in knocking one out up against us. If the black sheep quality of the ringer’s football shirt wasn’t unglaring enough amongst the JFF white, then his over-elaborate skills, and DVD (Dickish, Very Dickish) solo commentary was surely something even Don would’ve remembered before. In twin unison with another flash bastard, who seemed intent in going to war (not real war, more like West Side Story poncing) ripping the Mollys several new assholes, as the tricks and flicks decimated what should’ve been an assured Molly’s defence.
With Steve initially confused by the seemingly additional Molly blues on the pitch (the ref and the ringer) [insert your own gay pub joke here] the only successful passing out of defence he could muster would’ve been being knocked unconscious by any of the thunderous shots being slammed our way.
We played too deep, with no outlet once we had any vague notion of playing it out of our half. Matt’s distribution was worse than atrocious (btrocious), and contributed to overall possession percentage being in the low 30s, like all the best bachelors. It would be a glaring omission if I failed to mention that thing with Matt and the ball and whatever. The opposition attacked without fear, held up the ball well, allowing all four of their outfield to occupy our frontmen, fitter than Jessica Biel in sweatpants.
Leo and Nobby were stuck between two stools, neither perched on the defensive edge singing Westlife covers, nor swinging the fuckers above their heads through attacking pub windows. The support to the frontmen was poor, forcing Gareth to drop back deeper than ever, and even Nathan prodded and poked away at his own natural eye for the counter-attack.
We ran them pretty close the first half, with only their initial goal thrust separating us, but the second half was pretty much all them. With the referee failing to curb their spoiling tactics, the match descended into a lawless state of referee apathy. Always, always we seem to come up against wankers who piss all over the rule book, then bitch like hell when you try to stuff said urine-soaked rulebook down their throats. Responding with some arrogant showboating, an attempted elbow into Leo's face that missed by a cuntry mile, and a little verse of keepy-upsy on the edge of the D, that even the flash fucker’s teammates must’ve been secretly throwing mental ‘wanker’ signs at, the game ended with a moral victory for The Molly Maguires.
Not only did it allow a bit of siege-mentality bonding between said team, but beating the league leaders would’ve had unfortunate potential consequences, again not helped by the subsequent default 10-0 victory against the previous top team. Still, I guess moods can only improve. My new video ipod ensures that no longer do I have to rely on social interaction with married women during lunchtime, when I can geek-leak at downloaded video game podcasts. I don’t have to rush home two hours early from work next summer to catch Euro ’08, ‘cause you know, I like to work my contracted hours… (shurely, sum mishtake). And with another Molly match just a day away, I'm ready to do this all again, like a snake eating it’s own tail.
Final Score: 6-11
Goal Scorers: Nathan 4, Gareth 1, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Nobby 5, Steve 5, Leo 5, Gareth 6, Nathan 7
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan
“Hey, the bulletproof are so resilient, to every fool with an opinion, they never break”
I write this report nearly two weeks late. Because I’ve been recklessly bored. When I get like this, I do undeniably stupid things – knock people off ladders; take upskirt photos; cripple e-mail systems; jump out onto rooftops with no discernable way of getting back in. Without natural highs, you manufacture artificial ones. My mood’s hardly been helped by another Molly default victory, limiting my football adrenaline fix to twice in a month.
Had to make do with the two England national sides doing their best to fill up the smoke-free pubs, and whilst Wilkinson kicks like a mule, Rooney tackles like a donkey, clearly forgetting which code he was playing. A drop kick wide of the posts, and a parried shot straight into an onrushing attacker looked all too familiar. An artificial low. Yet an expected low.
The Mollys would never use a plastic pitch, the brisk cold weather or a referee with video replay facilities as an excuse for another soppy defeat. We’d blame ringers, shit passing and a referee without video replay facilities. I was looking over my report when we last played these cowboys, and my description of the opposition bares only the vaguest resemblance to the group of disparate individuals we were playing against tonight. Our line-up from last time saw only Michael replaced by Nobby, and was hardly unlike Erikkson being replaced by McClaren. Yet there were no running riots from us, no lack of moxy from them. Where was their inadequate keeper; where was their body-odour enamoured spokesman; who were these fuckers?
We conceded early and fast. Seemingly there is space between Matt’s legs, as the ball so discovered, and the Mollys fell immediately onto their backside in a macrocosm echo, as the opposition scored with us rough twice more. The opposition were playing with rhythm, like a misdiagnosed aneurysm; they played with pace, like an artificially assisted heart; they played with guile, like Van Damme in Street Fighter The Movie.
You couldn’t shake the unnatural feeling that Just For Football had hired a hooker (rugby reference) to artificially assist them in knocking one out up against us. If the black sheep quality of the ringer’s football shirt wasn’t unglaring enough amongst the JFF white, then his over-elaborate skills, and DVD (Dickish, Very Dickish) solo commentary was surely something even Don would’ve remembered before. In twin unison with another flash bastard, who seemed intent in going to war (not real war, more like West Side Story poncing) ripping the Mollys several new assholes, as the tricks and flicks decimated what should’ve been an assured Molly’s defence.
With Steve initially confused by the seemingly additional Molly blues on the pitch (the ref and the ringer) [insert your own gay pub joke here] the only successful passing out of defence he could muster would’ve been being knocked unconscious by any of the thunderous shots being slammed our way.
We played too deep, with no outlet once we had any vague notion of playing it out of our half. Matt’s distribution was worse than atrocious (btrocious), and contributed to overall possession percentage being in the low 30s, like all the best bachelors. It would be a glaring omission if I failed to mention that thing with Matt and the ball and whatever. The opposition attacked without fear, held up the ball well, allowing all four of their outfield to occupy our frontmen, fitter than Jessica Biel in sweatpants.
Leo and Nobby were stuck between two stools, neither perched on the defensive edge singing Westlife covers, nor swinging the fuckers above their heads through attacking pub windows. The support to the frontmen was poor, forcing Gareth to drop back deeper than ever, and even Nathan prodded and poked away at his own natural eye for the counter-attack.
We ran them pretty close the first half, with only their initial goal thrust separating us, but the second half was pretty much all them. With the referee failing to curb their spoiling tactics, the match descended into a lawless state of referee apathy. Always, always we seem to come up against wankers who piss all over the rule book, then bitch like hell when you try to stuff said urine-soaked rulebook down their throats. Responding with some arrogant showboating, an attempted elbow into Leo's face that missed by a cuntry mile, and a little verse of keepy-upsy on the edge of the D, that even the flash fucker’s teammates must’ve been secretly throwing mental ‘wanker’ signs at, the game ended with a moral victory for The Molly Maguires.
Not only did it allow a bit of siege-mentality bonding between said team, but beating the league leaders would’ve had unfortunate potential consequences, again not helped by the subsequent default 10-0 victory against the previous top team. Still, I guess moods can only improve. My new video ipod ensures that no longer do I have to rely on social interaction with married women during lunchtime, when I can geek-leak at downloaded video game podcasts. I don’t have to rush home two hours early from work next summer to catch Euro ’08, ‘cause you know, I like to work my contracted hours… (shurely, sum mishtake). And with another Molly match just a day away, I'm ready to do this all again, like a snake eating it’s own tail.
Final Score: 6-11
Goal Scorers: Nathan 4, Gareth 1, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Nobby 5, Steve 5, Leo 5, Gareth 6, Nathan 7
Man of the Match: Nathan
Thursday, 4 October 2007
Match 8 Season 3 vs. Hank & Clive
Date: 3/10/07 Time: 20:30
Line-up: 5.Leo (c) 6.Robbie 7.Dean 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam
“Made a mistake. I made a mistake. I wear the scars to show my shame. What should I do? What should I do? When I’m the one, hey, to blame”
Ouch. Some few days on from throwing myself around like an epileptic sack of spuds, and the aches are starting to feel more pronounced. I’ve even developed one of those mediocre limps in my right leg and my radial reach has been temporarily reduced. Never again will I criticise our goalkeeping gaffa and his stalwart brilliance between the sticks.
I was talking to myself and trying to recall what the worst pain I had ever suffered was. I don’t remember the circumcision; falling off our bicycle seat’s onto the frame is a rites of passage; the bust lung was more an inconvenience; hockey stick to the face was a temporary stun; and I’ve thwarted my fear of needles.
I guess it boils down to my constant battle against the super flesh-eating eczema, and my dislocated finger, received on my last outing in goal, in a friendly kicking with kids and old people. Ironically, it was my return to goal tonight that inflicted hurt once more. Knowing you are literally the last line of defence, and still get scatter-boomed by fifteen goals is as crushing as it gets. So unlike Given dethroning Harper in the Newcastle C*ntpies goal last weekend, this swap was more akin to swapping Robinson around with James. Ballsups are guaranteed regardless.
Tactics went straight out of the 57th floor window when it became clear that the Molly personnel do not have the cognitive functioning to play in a restricted zonal marking system, that, gawd forbidden, requires tracking back. With Robbie only playing his second game in months, looking like a jellyfish out of water, lining up alongside Adam, with the mobility of a Kia on bricks, this wasn’t a defensive performance for the purist. With Dean upsetting the balance in whichever position he played, and Gareth and Nathan on an attacking see-saw, with neither wanting to push down first, we were in for a world of hurt.
In the weeks leading up to this match, Hank & Clive had proved themselves adept at scoring goals by a post-strike sackful, whilst the Mollys’ defence had easily outclassed their attack. Only half of the previous statement would apply to tonight’s game. With Hank & Clive able to fire shots goal-ward at will, seemingly given limitless space and countless options, their shots either resulted in brilliant goals, hapless goals, stunning outfield blocks, or narrow misses.
Without Steve’s calm comatose passing out or Leo’s more panicky but pacey clearances, the Molly keeper was getting his bluff called too often, and having forgotten how to save shuffle-sideways, with body behind the ball, or to dive without a limp wrist, the goals conceded flowed without let up, as the team went three down in record quick time. On the positive, Leo’s distribution was high on speed, accuracy, and right on an attackers toes, and this route one action was getting us goals from Nathan and Gareth to try and drag the team back in it.
Unfortunately, whilst the front men were risking everything, the link-up play between them and the rest was non-existent, like a bunch of strangers passing thorough a shopping centre, desperately trying to avoid the bib-wearing clipboard wielder. No real surprise the result, given the personnel actually featured more attackers then defenders for the first time in ages.
Half-time saw us 8-5 down, but it could’ve been so much worse. With so many shooting opportunities afforded to the opposition as they won the 50-50s, they had enough shots to at least hit the ball out of the pitch on at least three occasions, and Leo did save a few efforts on goal, and so the advantage of having him in goal, rather than just sodding it and playing him in defence without a keeper, made sense.
The second half continued the continual attack policies of both teams, but the Mollys continued to compound their errors – Robbie and Gareth both losing the ball too soon in front of goal, to leave the keeper out of position for the simple passing shot, and Leo getting a rebound off his back for an own goal. With Robbie passing the ball to the opposition with the frequency of bungs, and Adam passing the ball to the wall, before the opposition picked it up, getting out of our own half was like climbing up the Spinnaker Tower dressed as Spiderman – wearing a football shirt, doesn’t make you a footballer.
Leo could afford to correctly let in an indirect free-kick without touch, but no other real luck was coming as the goals continued to raze past him. Where’s the mad jock to come running onto the pitch, tickle my embarrassed chin and make me collapse like a punched outside Junk nightclub, when you need him?
Nathan scored the ultimate route one goal, as a thunderous Hank & Clive strike rattled off the bar, looped all the way back down the pitch, for the glory-hunting goalhanger to tumble into the net; Gareth scored the most delicious angled thundercrack to get even the opposition applauding; and Dean managed to get on the scoresheet without the need for a surreptitious pen and small downward stroke.
The game finished 11-15. The attackers had got their act together, but the defenders had a disappointing evening, and it’s the divisible line between that continues to plague the Mollys progress. Why can’t we have a pretty face, smart brain, and great curves in one package? And no matter what people say, losing by four goals, and conceding 15 in the process is not close, especially after grand declarations of shutting out over two-thirds of that. Still the result actually drops the team down by just one, into third place, which is still way too close to possible promotion, so perhaps another off-evening would be a welcome respite from all the winning.
The return of the gaffa and Steve should ease the selection process once again, and so Matt can take back his lovely denim purse (complete with hoity-toity Adam’s fee) now that his latest Megabus promotional photoshoot is complete.
Having got to the end of this report, I’ve suddenly realised I was being a little economical with the truth earlier. I have played goal in a competitive match since my finger got caned from its socket. In March, I conceded five in a first half against The Mighty Ducks and was so thoroughly ashamed, I swapped with Aneel for the second. Oh, to only concede five… I also said I’d never criticise Matt again. Fat chance.
Final Score: 11-15
Goal Scorers: Gareth 5, Nathan 5, Dean 1
Line-up: 5.Leo (c) 6.Robbie 7.Dean 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam
“Made a mistake. I made a mistake. I wear the scars to show my shame. What should I do? What should I do? When I’m the one, hey, to blame”
Ouch. Some few days on from throwing myself around like an epileptic sack of spuds, and the aches are starting to feel more pronounced. I’ve even developed one of those mediocre limps in my right leg and my radial reach has been temporarily reduced. Never again will I criticise our goalkeeping gaffa and his stalwart brilliance between the sticks.
I was talking to myself and trying to recall what the worst pain I had ever suffered was. I don’t remember the circumcision; falling off our bicycle seat’s onto the frame is a rites of passage; the bust lung was more an inconvenience; hockey stick to the face was a temporary stun; and I’ve thwarted my fear of needles.
I guess it boils down to my constant battle against the super flesh-eating eczema, and my dislocated finger, received on my last outing in goal, in a friendly kicking with kids and old people. Ironically, it was my return to goal tonight that inflicted hurt once more. Knowing you are literally the last line of defence, and still get scatter-boomed by fifteen goals is as crushing as it gets. So unlike Given dethroning Harper in the Newcastle C*ntpies goal last weekend, this swap was more akin to swapping Robinson around with James. Ballsups are guaranteed regardless.
Tactics went straight out of the 57th floor window when it became clear that the Molly personnel do not have the cognitive functioning to play in a restricted zonal marking system, that, gawd forbidden, requires tracking back. With Robbie only playing his second game in months, looking like a jellyfish out of water, lining up alongside Adam, with the mobility of a Kia on bricks, this wasn’t a defensive performance for the purist. With Dean upsetting the balance in whichever position he played, and Gareth and Nathan on an attacking see-saw, with neither wanting to push down first, we were in for a world of hurt.
In the weeks leading up to this match, Hank & Clive had proved themselves adept at scoring goals by a post-strike sackful, whilst the Mollys’ defence had easily outclassed their attack. Only half of the previous statement would apply to tonight’s game. With Hank & Clive able to fire shots goal-ward at will, seemingly given limitless space and countless options, their shots either resulted in brilliant goals, hapless goals, stunning outfield blocks, or narrow misses.
Without Steve’s calm comatose passing out or Leo’s more panicky but pacey clearances, the Molly keeper was getting his bluff called too often, and having forgotten how to save shuffle-sideways, with body behind the ball, or to dive without a limp wrist, the goals conceded flowed without let up, as the team went three down in record quick time. On the positive, Leo’s distribution was high on speed, accuracy, and right on an attackers toes, and this route one action was getting us goals from Nathan and Gareth to try and drag the team back in it.
Unfortunately, whilst the front men were risking everything, the link-up play between them and the rest was non-existent, like a bunch of strangers passing thorough a shopping centre, desperately trying to avoid the bib-wearing clipboard wielder. No real surprise the result, given the personnel actually featured more attackers then defenders for the first time in ages.
Half-time saw us 8-5 down, but it could’ve been so much worse. With so many shooting opportunities afforded to the opposition as they won the 50-50s, they had enough shots to at least hit the ball out of the pitch on at least three occasions, and Leo did save a few efforts on goal, and so the advantage of having him in goal, rather than just sodding it and playing him in defence without a keeper, made sense.
The second half continued the continual attack policies of both teams, but the Mollys continued to compound their errors – Robbie and Gareth both losing the ball too soon in front of goal, to leave the keeper out of position for the simple passing shot, and Leo getting a rebound off his back for an own goal. With Robbie passing the ball to the opposition with the frequency of bungs, and Adam passing the ball to the wall, before the opposition picked it up, getting out of our own half was like climbing up the Spinnaker Tower dressed as Spiderman – wearing a football shirt, doesn’t make you a footballer.
Leo could afford to correctly let in an indirect free-kick without touch, but no other real luck was coming as the goals continued to raze past him. Where’s the mad jock to come running onto the pitch, tickle my embarrassed chin and make me collapse like a punched outside Junk nightclub, when you need him?
Nathan scored the ultimate route one goal, as a thunderous Hank & Clive strike rattled off the bar, looped all the way back down the pitch, for the glory-hunting goalhanger to tumble into the net; Gareth scored the most delicious angled thundercrack to get even the opposition applauding; and Dean managed to get on the scoresheet without the need for a surreptitious pen and small downward stroke.
The game finished 11-15. The attackers had got their act together, but the defenders had a disappointing evening, and it’s the divisible line between that continues to plague the Mollys progress. Why can’t we have a pretty face, smart brain, and great curves in one package? And no matter what people say, losing by four goals, and conceding 15 in the process is not close, especially after grand declarations of shutting out over two-thirds of that. Still the result actually drops the team down by just one, into third place, which is still way too close to possible promotion, so perhaps another off-evening would be a welcome respite from all the winning.
The return of the gaffa and Steve should ease the selection process once again, and so Matt can take back his lovely denim purse (complete with hoity-toity Adam’s fee) now that his latest Megabus promotional photoshoot is complete.
Having got to the end of this report, I’ve suddenly realised I was being a little economical with the truth earlier. I have played goal in a competitive match since my finger got caned from its socket. In March, I conceded five in a first half against The Mighty Ducks and was so thoroughly ashamed, I swapped with Aneel for the second. Oh, to only concede five… I also said I’d never criticise Matt again. Fat chance.
Final Score: 11-15
Goal Scorers: Gareth 5, Nathan 5, Dean 1
Match Ratings: Leo 5, Robbie 5, Dean 5, Gareth 6, Nathan 6, Adam 5
Wednesday, 26 September 2007
Match 7 Season 3 vs. Port-o-loo FC
Date: 26/9/07 Time: 19:45
Won 10-0 by default.
Opposition now replaced by Real Cupid Stunts.
Won 10-0 by default.
Opposition now replaced by Real Cupid Stunts.
Wednesday, 19 September 2007
Match 6 Season 3 vs. 86 FC
Date: 19/9/07 Time: 19:00
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 14.Michael
“You were my greatest mistake. I fell in love with your sin.”
Week in (sometimes several weeks in), week out, I churn out plenty of vitriolic bile against people I hate; people I like; people I don’t know; people I don’t give a damn about. All in the name of footballing entertainment. But you might wonder what credentials I have to be the mother of all football historians, tacticians, statisticians, reporters. How can I justify constantly mocking your affliction for supporting the Shithole of the South? Or your team affiliated to Satan? If Newcastle United changed their nickname to the C*ntpies (as they should), the FA, after mucho pissing about, would be suitably appalled. Yet having the most evil of fallen angels brazenly displayed on your club badge is okay?! Explains away Gary Neville, mind.
I used to be one of those armchair “better view on the telly” supporters. It was only during the World Cup of ’86 and West Ham’s previous ascendancy to the top flight (behind those Cole and Beardsley C*ntpies <catching on yet?>) that peaked my interest, but it wasn’t until 1993, that I saw my first live game – Leyton Orient vs Rotherham, a dull terrace-bound 1-1 spectacle. So, yeah, I never got the pleasure of being dragged to my first match when I was five to hear grown men shout “you focking cunt” <in quotes, I can spell it out>; I never got wrapped up in an Irons-branded pyjama set; I never did Tyro league.
Yet after an auspicious start, I arrived at this point of my own volition, supporting a team famous for The Academy, for winning the World Cup, and for buying their way to Premiership safety. I play in the same style as the only West Ham defender I would consider influential to me, the legendary No.5 Steve Potts*. And I try to be a student of the game, to immerse myself in the culture, to read Poll’s column in the Mail, to watch YouTube videos of Kerlon bouncing the ball on his head during matches, or to stifle yawns at England in the Women’s World Cup, whilst fantasising about Rachel Brown mishandling my balls (drum roll, cymbal crash).
All of which brings me full-circle to divine right, and the carat gold of my words. Tonight’s match was a tough old assignment. 86 FC’s record was as good as any in the league. They had an enviable defensive record, and scored just enough more to win their matches. It didn’t take a genius like me to know this was going to be a tight low-scoring affair that we were going to lose.
And it wasn’t exactly looking any more promising with those players having to travel from the farthest reaches of the county not present for the kick-off – even Gandalf managed to traverse the bulk of Middle-Earth to make the second half of the Battle of Helm’s Deep. So with three centre halves assisting the attacking endeavours of Gareth, this even further looked like a war of attrition.
‘Cept, this was a game that fully played into the Mollys’ footballing philosophy. The kind of exhibition football, with touch-tag rules, an absence of notable tackling or fouls, lots of dull ball retention for them, and a lot of Gareth mazy running for us, that had an almost sedate leisurely pace about it. Like a Masters tournament. With Leo dipping more enthusiastically into his Happy Meal of being some sorta schizo defensive attacking left wingback, and Michael so not content to be a defensive anchor (no matter how loudly he protests to being a centre-half) bombing down the right-wing looking for the sweet crack of goals, it left Steve content at the back, and a team shape that enthusiastically dribbled with panache.
An immediate dividend saw Michael play a one-two off either a defender, the wall, or Gareth (it happened so quick I can’t recall) before unleashing his toepoke of thunder through a static keeper, for the Molly’s to take an early lead, and once Gareth had flushed a couple of glaring sitters out of his system, he delivered a brace with his usual prod and go running at defenders.
Adam showed up at some point in the first half to give the team an excuse to sub, but there was so little intensity, violence or speed, that even this report author lasted the first 20 minutes without issue (perhaps six weeks playing on the trot is finally paying off). Of course, we let the opposition back into it, as they managed to pull square, including a dodgy penalty given against yours truly with some referee bollocks about my left foot being in the D.
The ref was hardly having the greatest of matches, but with no-one bothering arguing the toss, the decisions evened themselves over the course of the match. So 3-3 at half-time, and with Nathan finally rocking up for the team talk, the Mollys were in a surprisingly good position to push on and collapse into their usual heap of second half mess.
Somehow we held it firm – we maintained a balance and disciplined team shape with Adam, Leo, Steve and Michael all successfully having a crack at defending the final third, whilst Gareth and Nathan continued to plug away at their partnership upfront, turning in the most astonishing sequence which saw them pass and move the ball to each other unbroken half-dozen around the opposition’s goal, before proving ultimately anti-climactic – like a 69 interrupted by vomit.
And whilst part-time charlie Nathan looked like a limp piece of raw meat by the end, he had enough sauce to drive home a low range, tight-angled winner with seconds remaining to end a game that was packed with so little incident that shaking the black stones from my shoes, and watching Adam failing to finish a whole pint of orange juice in the bar (he didn’t drop it, mind) proved infinitely more memorable, although in fairness to me, it was a long time ago.
So what happened? The doomsayers had predicted a defeat – even Nathan was talking to himself about such, on his stroll over. For the second week running, we’d only conceded 5 goals, which puts paid to the theory that Steve’s too immobile, that Leo can’t operate away from the D, that Matt’s just a big pudding with gloves, that Adam's presence does not necessarily spell defeat. You just wonder when the attack are gonna shift into third gear, eh?
At the start of this report I wasted three paragraphs talking about my credibility as a journalist, but damn even I didn’t foresee this barn-storming, more like shed-walking, result that keeps the Mollys in amongst a pack of cannibalistic teams hungry to take chunks of points from each other. But then again, my second team is Sheffield Wednesday.
Final Score: 6-5
Goal Scorers: Gareth 3, Nathan 2, Michael 1
Match Ratings: Matt 8, Steve 8, Leo 8, Gareth 8, Nathan 7 (for being late), Adam 8, Michael 8
*The shortest ever centre-back that has played top-flight football. Fact. That I just made up. But might still be true.
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 14.Michael
“You were my greatest mistake. I fell in love with your sin.”
Week in (sometimes several weeks in), week out, I churn out plenty of vitriolic bile against people I hate; people I like; people I don’t know; people I don’t give a damn about. All in the name of footballing entertainment. But you might wonder what credentials I have to be the mother of all football historians, tacticians, statisticians, reporters. How can I justify constantly mocking your affliction for supporting the Shithole of the South? Or your team affiliated to Satan? If Newcastle United changed their nickname to the C*ntpies (as they should), the FA, after mucho pissing about, would be suitably appalled. Yet having the most evil of fallen angels brazenly displayed on your club badge is okay?! Explains away Gary Neville, mind.
I used to be one of those armchair “better view on the telly” supporters. It was only during the World Cup of ’86 and West Ham’s previous ascendancy to the top flight (behind those Cole and Beardsley C*ntpies <catching on yet?>) that peaked my interest, but it wasn’t until 1993, that I saw my first live game – Leyton Orient vs Rotherham, a dull terrace-bound 1-1 spectacle. So, yeah, I never got the pleasure of being dragged to my first match when I was five to hear grown men shout “you focking cunt” <in quotes, I can spell it out>; I never got wrapped up in an Irons-branded pyjama set; I never did Tyro league.
Yet after an auspicious start, I arrived at this point of my own volition, supporting a team famous for The Academy, for winning the World Cup, and for buying their way to Premiership safety. I play in the same style as the only West Ham defender I would consider influential to me, the legendary No.5 Steve Potts*. And I try to be a student of the game, to immerse myself in the culture, to read Poll’s column in the Mail, to watch YouTube videos of Kerlon bouncing the ball on his head during matches, or to stifle yawns at England in the Women’s World Cup, whilst fantasising about Rachel Brown mishandling my balls (drum roll, cymbal crash).
All of which brings me full-circle to divine right, and the carat gold of my words. Tonight’s match was a tough old assignment. 86 FC’s record was as good as any in the league. They had an enviable defensive record, and scored just enough more to win their matches. It didn’t take a genius like me to know this was going to be a tight low-scoring affair that we were going to lose.
And it wasn’t exactly looking any more promising with those players having to travel from the farthest reaches of the county not present for the kick-off – even Gandalf managed to traverse the bulk of Middle-Earth to make the second half of the Battle of Helm’s Deep. So with three centre halves assisting the attacking endeavours of Gareth, this even further looked like a war of attrition.
‘Cept, this was a game that fully played into the Mollys’ footballing philosophy. The kind of exhibition football, with touch-tag rules, an absence of notable tackling or fouls, lots of dull ball retention for them, and a lot of Gareth mazy running for us, that had an almost sedate leisurely pace about it. Like a Masters tournament. With Leo dipping more enthusiastically into his Happy Meal of being some sorta schizo defensive attacking left wingback, and Michael so not content to be a defensive anchor (no matter how loudly he protests to being a centre-half) bombing down the right-wing looking for the sweet crack of goals, it left Steve content at the back, and a team shape that enthusiastically dribbled with panache.
An immediate dividend saw Michael play a one-two off either a defender, the wall, or Gareth (it happened so quick I can’t recall) before unleashing his toepoke of thunder through a static keeper, for the Molly’s to take an early lead, and once Gareth had flushed a couple of glaring sitters out of his system, he delivered a brace with his usual prod and go running at defenders.
Adam showed up at some point in the first half to give the team an excuse to sub, but there was so little intensity, violence or speed, that even this report author lasted the first 20 minutes without issue (perhaps six weeks playing on the trot is finally paying off). Of course, we let the opposition back into it, as they managed to pull square, including a dodgy penalty given against yours truly with some referee bollocks about my left foot being in the D.
The ref was hardly having the greatest of matches, but with no-one bothering arguing the toss, the decisions evened themselves over the course of the match. So 3-3 at half-time, and with Nathan finally rocking up for the team talk, the Mollys were in a surprisingly good position to push on and collapse into their usual heap of second half mess.
Somehow we held it firm – we maintained a balance and disciplined team shape with Adam, Leo, Steve and Michael all successfully having a crack at defending the final third, whilst Gareth and Nathan continued to plug away at their partnership upfront, turning in the most astonishing sequence which saw them pass and move the ball to each other unbroken half-dozen around the opposition’s goal, before proving ultimately anti-climactic – like a 69 interrupted by vomit.
And whilst part-time charlie Nathan looked like a limp piece of raw meat by the end, he had enough sauce to drive home a low range, tight-angled winner with seconds remaining to end a game that was packed with so little incident that shaking the black stones from my shoes, and watching Adam failing to finish a whole pint of orange juice in the bar (he didn’t drop it, mind) proved infinitely more memorable, although in fairness to me, it was a long time ago.
So what happened? The doomsayers had predicted a defeat – even Nathan was talking to himself about such, on his stroll over. For the second week running, we’d only conceded 5 goals, which puts paid to the theory that Steve’s too immobile, that Leo can’t operate away from the D, that Matt’s just a big pudding with gloves, that Adam's presence does not necessarily spell defeat. You just wonder when the attack are gonna shift into third gear, eh?
At the start of this report I wasted three paragraphs talking about my credibility as a journalist, but damn even I didn’t foresee this barn-storming, more like shed-walking, result that keeps the Mollys in amongst a pack of cannibalistic teams hungry to take chunks of points from each other. But then again, my second team is Sheffield Wednesday.
Final Score: 6-5
Goal Scorers: Gareth 3, Nathan 2, Michael 1
Match Ratings: Matt 8, Steve 8, Leo 8, Gareth 8, Nathan 7 (for being late), Adam 8, Michael 8
*The shortest ever centre-back that has played top-flight football. Fact. That I just made up. But might still be true.
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
Match 5 Season 3 vs. The Granite
Date: 12/9/07 Time: 21:15
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 6.Robbie 9.Gareth 10.Nathan
Due to editorial deadlines, this report does not exist. However, please take note of the following:
-These guys are arseholes, resorting to hacking and slashing Gareth on the "kicking wing" because he had the damn nerve to outplay them.
-Matt kept us in the match with some very smart saves.
-Robbie stepped in the breach both as peacemaker, and as defender, like he'd never been away.
-Leo scored a tumbled goal, getting to the ball, before it just got to the D
-Steve produced a sublime Joe Cole-like through pass to set up Gareth
-Don was told by an opposing player to "shut up", as he gave The Granite the usual lesson in the rules
- This wasn't the thrashing that we expected to mete out onto the opposition
Final Score: 8-5
Goal Scorers: Gareth 5, Nathan 2, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 7, Nobby 7, Steve 7, Leo 7, Robbie 7, Gareth 8, Nathan 7
MOTM: Gareth
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 6.Robbie 9.Gareth 10.Nathan
Due to editorial deadlines, this report does not exist. However, please take note of the following:
-These guys are arseholes, resorting to hacking and slashing Gareth on the "kicking wing" because he had the damn nerve to outplay them.
-Matt kept us in the match with some very smart saves.
-Robbie stepped in the breach both as peacemaker, and as defender, like he'd never been away.
-Leo scored a tumbled goal, getting to the ball, before it just got to the D
-Steve produced a sublime Joe Cole-like through pass to set up Gareth
-Don was told by an opposing player to "shut up", as he gave The Granite the usual lesson in the rules
- This wasn't the thrashing that we expected to mete out onto the opposition
Final Score: 8-5
Goal Scorers: Gareth 5, Nathan 2, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 7, Nobby 7, Steve 7, Leo 7, Robbie 7, Gareth 8, Nathan 7
MOTM: Gareth
Sunday, 9 September 2007
Thursday, 6 September 2007
Match 4 Season 3 vs. Team Gumtree
Date: 5/9/07 Time: 20:30
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan
“It goes…..face in the crowd. If you don’t care, then why are you singing out?”
All the most important things in the world are divided into halves. The human brain – separate hemispheres with distinct control functions; the Bible – the old part with it’s creation, plagues, judges, and Samson – the new part with a hippie and his God complex; From Dusk Till Dawn – part gangster/hostage/hijack flick, part vampire suckfest; and the football match – a first half, and a final half.
Even I am divided into two: half cute, loveable, sweet and innocent Leo; half cynical, sarcastic shitbag Lungboy. Split personalities are fun – they allow abdication of responsibility, confuse mind readers, and gives me someone to talk to when sitting alone in The Lizard Lounge rubbing the condensation off my glass.
What you’ve yet to know, is that even my alter-ego has an alter-ego. Even Lungboy has a darker half, so dangerous he casts a shadow in the darkness. He’s reckless and uncontrollable, and makes Mr Hyde look like a teenage whinger who wasn’t allowed to breast-feed beyond the age of 13. The nature of this recent football match means that the jovial first half will be written by the Lung, the second, by he who should not be named.
The evening started brightly, as the team were informed by the janitor at the Goals centre that they would be featured on the covers of Shoot, Match! and World Soccer, with an exclusive photoshoot and match review. Once we’d twigged that there is no janitor at Goals, the designated first-aider instead confirmed it was the back page of The Pink* we would be gracing with our translucent beauty, and so their circulation would increase by six.
Yeah six, what with Adam continuing to use his sophisticated Create-Your-Own-Excuse randomiser computer programme. It allows thousands of reason combinations to skive. As I can’t be bothered to play next week, I’ve tried it: I cannot attend your event/activity because MY STEP-DAUGHTER has BROKEN HIS FACE whilst EATING AEROPLANE. I need to GET LAID and CLEAN my FLOWERS. **
So the team photos were taken, with media whore Don pushing his way into shot, and although Team Gumtree were no doubt actually the team being profiled and report written about, we were not about to make up the numbers. Nope, we’d fuck it up later.
We’re trying to learn from our mistakes, and after the debacle of last week’s terribly pathetic performance, we tried to get the tactics right from the start. We were gonna play a 1-2-1 formation, in a pseudo-man marking system, with the ‘2’ being the dedicated wingers, with Steve anchoring (and Leo deputising) the defence. Nobby was tasked with doing the one thing he’s actually skilled at, running into space, holding up the ball, and playing in Nathan and Gareth. And Matt was tasked with not letting shots slip through his fingers at his near post, or lift his foot up to allow soft direct free-kicks to trickle into the net, because he misheard the referee.
And make love to me slowly sideways with a rusty chainsaw if it didn’t bloody work, as the Mollys were all over Team Gumtree, like maggots over Pavarotti. Decimation and desecration are the only words to describe what we did to the “strong favourites” (© The Pink) that first half. Despite some bitch-talk about his legs being sore, Gareth impressed once again with his delirious running, linking with Nathan in what some demented people have described as a striking ‘partnership’, with a bit of ‘passing’ going on between them. Just imagine me reading the last part of that sentence aloud to you, for full sarcastic effect.
Gareth and Nathan “danger man” Mills (© The Pink) were shooting beyond their keeper with absolute clarity – Nathan banging in a top corner stunner that reeked of awesome. With Nobby playing a good water-carrying game, assisted by an opposition who stood off, played fair, and kept their ‘shoulders down’ for the most part, it was all Molly traffic. Leo even had the audacity to follow up a sky rocket shot to the moon, with a half way long range caner that squirreled under the keeper’s body as the Mollys took a 5-0 lead without reply.
With Steve and Nathan fighting to take the free-kicks, the Mollys played with a reasonable high line, we counter-attacked them with rapidity and accuracy, as our strikers frequently found themselves through one on one with their last man. And Matt was barely troubled until the end of a rapidly over first half when he soiled a potential clean sheet with a dirty doo-doo of concession. As the Mollys put down the tins of whitewash at half-time, was there talk of the inevitable second half collapse? Had we scored enough distance to absorb a potential fightback? Did we make whooping noises, and imitate sexual thrusts? Well, something snapped, something got triggered, as the Mollys went from Banner to Hulk, only in reverse. Which is an appropriate time for my other other half to take over.
PISSPOORFUCKWANKSHITCOCKBOLLOCKSCRAP.
Final Score: 7-9
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Nobby 6, Steve 6, Leo 5, Gareth 5, Nathan 5
MOTM: Matt
*Steve was kind enough to inform us that this was the only pink he would be in this weekend, without giving his missus a month’s notice. Ooooh suits you sir.
**Utterly more plausible than anything Jon and Robbie ever came up with. 2 for 1 Orange cinema tickets, indeed?!
All the most important things in the world are divided into halves. The human brain – separate hemispheres with distinct control functions; the Bible – the old part with it’s creation, plagues, judges, and Samson – the new part with a hippie and his God complex; From Dusk Till Dawn – part gangster/hostage/hijack flick, part vampire suckfest; and the football match – a first half, and a final half.
Even I am divided into two: half cute, loveable, sweet and innocent Leo; half cynical, sarcastic shitbag Lungboy. Split personalities are fun – they allow abdication of responsibility, confuse mind readers, and gives me someone to talk to when sitting alone in The Lizard Lounge rubbing the condensation off my glass.
What you’ve yet to know, is that even my alter-ego has an alter-ego. Even Lungboy has a darker half, so dangerous he casts a shadow in the darkness. He’s reckless and uncontrollable, and makes Mr Hyde look like a teenage whinger who wasn’t allowed to breast-feed beyond the age of 13. The nature of this recent football match means that the jovial first half will be written by the Lung, the second, by he who should not be named.
The evening started brightly, as the team were informed by the janitor at the Goals centre that they would be featured on the covers of Shoot, Match! and World Soccer, with an exclusive photoshoot and match review. Once we’d twigged that there is no janitor at Goals, the designated first-aider instead confirmed it was the back page of The Pink* we would be gracing with our translucent beauty, and so their circulation would increase by six.
Yeah six, what with Adam continuing to use his sophisticated Create-Your-Own-Excuse randomiser computer programme. It allows thousands of reason combinations to skive. As I can’t be bothered to play next week, I’ve tried it: I cannot attend your event/activity because MY STEP-DAUGHTER has BROKEN HIS FACE whilst EATING AEROPLANE. I need to GET LAID and CLEAN my FLOWERS. **
So the team photos were taken, with media whore Don pushing his way into shot, and although Team Gumtree were no doubt actually the team being profiled and report written about, we were not about to make up the numbers. Nope, we’d fuck it up later.
We’re trying to learn from our mistakes, and after the debacle of last week’s terribly pathetic performance, we tried to get the tactics right from the start. We were gonna play a 1-2-1 formation, in a pseudo-man marking system, with the ‘2’ being the dedicated wingers, with Steve anchoring (and Leo deputising) the defence. Nobby was tasked with doing the one thing he’s actually skilled at, running into space, holding up the ball, and playing in Nathan and Gareth. And Matt was tasked with not letting shots slip through his fingers at his near post, or lift his foot up to allow soft direct free-kicks to trickle into the net, because he misheard the referee.
And make love to me slowly sideways with a rusty chainsaw if it didn’t bloody work, as the Mollys were all over Team Gumtree, like maggots over Pavarotti. Decimation and desecration are the only words to describe what we did to the “strong favourites” (© The Pink) that first half. Despite some bitch-talk about his legs being sore, Gareth impressed once again with his delirious running, linking with Nathan in what some demented people have described as a striking ‘partnership’, with a bit of ‘passing’ going on between them. Just imagine me reading the last part of that sentence aloud to you, for full sarcastic effect.
Gareth and Nathan “danger man” Mills (© The Pink) were shooting beyond their keeper with absolute clarity – Nathan banging in a top corner stunner that reeked of awesome. With Nobby playing a good water-carrying game, assisted by an opposition who stood off, played fair, and kept their ‘shoulders down’ for the most part, it was all Molly traffic. Leo even had the audacity to follow up a sky rocket shot to the moon, with a half way long range caner that squirreled under the keeper’s body as the Mollys took a 5-0 lead without reply.
With Steve and Nathan fighting to take the free-kicks, the Mollys played with a reasonable high line, we counter-attacked them with rapidity and accuracy, as our strikers frequently found themselves through one on one with their last man. And Matt was barely troubled until the end of a rapidly over first half when he soiled a potential clean sheet with a dirty doo-doo of concession. As the Mollys put down the tins of whitewash at half-time, was there talk of the inevitable second half collapse? Had we scored enough distance to absorb a potential fightback? Did we make whooping noises, and imitate sexual thrusts? Well, something snapped, something got triggered, as the Mollys went from Banner to Hulk, only in reverse. Which is an appropriate time for my other other half to take over.
PISSPOORFUCKWANKSHITCOCKBOLLOCKSCRAP.
Final Score: 7-9
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Nobby 6, Steve 6, Leo 5, Gareth 5, Nathan 5
MOTM: Matt
*Steve was kind enough to inform us that this was the only pink he would be in this weekend, without giving his missus a month’s notice. Ooooh suits you sir.
**Utterly more plausible than anything Jon and Robbie ever came up with. 2 for 1 Orange cinema tickets, indeed?!
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