19/12/07 9:15pm
WON 10-0
By default
Monday, 24 December 2007
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
Match 4 Season 4 vs. Hank & Clive
12/12/07 8:30pm
Leo, Nobby, Steve, Dean, Gareth, Nathan
WON 11-5
Scorers: Nathan 4, Gareth 6, Dean 1
Match Ratings: Leo 9, Nobby 9, Steve 9, Dean 9, Gareth 9, Nathan 9
I've started writing this report on Christmas Eve whilst at the office, waiting for the last two hours of my working day to trundle on by. Obviously I'm just typing this up on a work computer and then cutting and pasting onto the blog. I've decided to go free flow on this report. Normally, I make notes before I write reports. Normally, I think up jokes or topical events, jot them down, and then make a list of poignant facts about the game to merge it into one glorious whole. Like stuffing a turkey with mashed up Christmas pudding.
It's been almost two weeks now since this match was actually played. A match against Hank & Clive - a team that had so convincingly pissed on our yuletide log fire last time out, that a repeat offender performance was very likely, nay expected. Without the gaffer's stalwart goalkeeping skills available, Leo would again don the keeper gloves, with a less boastful resolution to do a better job than last time, and without wild predictions of keeping clean sheets - bet even Gok Wan's forever changing his dirty ass-ridden sheets.
The outfield had a calm symmetry about it - Steve, Nobby and Dean providing much needed graft to Gareth and Nathan's craft, but with the capacity to alternate between attack and defence, like Doherty between court and rehab. But without tight discipline and effective man management we were gonna suffer again. Despite an encouraging team performance the previous week (with newest rookie Alex making a worthwhile debut) against the speccy wearing twat and his Potter-like magical skills, we'd have to go some to outdo that performance with some spirited pass and move, one touch directness and some godspeed.
With some delight, it was announced we'd be playing on one of the new side-ways scrolling pitches for the first time, all velvety carpetting, none rounded corners, little few black stones. The kind of pitch you could just snuggle into and rub yourself to sleep with. Whilst the dispute will rage on about whether the pitch was larger and the goals were smaller, I think both were true. From a goalkeeper's perspective, it just appeared that the edge of the pitch was an extra half mile from the D, and the overlapping running that saw many of Mollys careening down the wings like a threadbare Zonda, could only have been possible with the space afforded by the generous walls. Either that or the opposition were rank.
Ah, the opposition. My theory is this: Hank and Clive are a gay couple who adopt young ASBO tearaways. A community club like the Red-Hand Gang, or those Why Don't You? shits. Tearaways who can't all afford to be decked out in the team's new black sheen and red piping number; street corner loiterers who only have a white or red shirt in their knapsack on a stick. So the 21st Century's answer to Pippa and her husband who got killed off, bring them to Goals for a kickabout team-bonding value of learning evening. Hence why the opposition never quite seem to be the exact same, and why they appear to have a Youth Offending Team's caseload worth of subs and supporters.
The message and mission was extremely clear. If we don't concede three goals in the first three minutes, in less time it takes to play a Napalm Death song, on repeat, we'd have a chance of winning. Soak up the early pressure like a sponge, then throw that pressure back at them, like a wet sponge. Defend from the front, sharp one touch passing, stick and move like Cassius Clay, local produce, freshly seasoned, simple, delicious. Done.
Thankfully this was no 8-0 whitewash, no 24-10 devastation. We didn’t get belted by lashings of chubby rain, we didn’t get bitch-slapped into submission. Leo didn’t pull his thigh muscles in the warm-up, Nathan had a mirror-image strike partner to reflect off, there was defensive discipline and we rarely played ourselves into danger with over-complicated running and not moving the ball on quick enough.
Wow, this match report has been abandoned.
Leo, Nobby, Steve, Dean, Gareth, Nathan
WON 11-5
Scorers: Nathan 4, Gareth 6, Dean 1
Match Ratings: Leo 9, Nobby 9, Steve 9, Dean 9, Gareth 9, Nathan 9
I've started writing this report on Christmas Eve whilst at the office, waiting for the last two hours of my working day to trundle on by. Obviously I'm just typing this up on a work computer and then cutting and pasting onto the blog. I've decided to go free flow on this report. Normally, I make notes before I write reports. Normally, I think up jokes or topical events, jot them down, and then make a list of poignant facts about the game to merge it into one glorious whole. Like stuffing a turkey with mashed up Christmas pudding.
It's been almost two weeks now since this match was actually played. A match against Hank & Clive - a team that had so convincingly pissed on our yuletide log fire last time out, that a repeat offender performance was very likely, nay expected. Without the gaffer's stalwart goalkeeping skills available, Leo would again don the keeper gloves, with a less boastful resolution to do a better job than last time, and without wild predictions of keeping clean sheets - bet even Gok Wan's forever changing his dirty ass-ridden sheets.
The outfield had a calm symmetry about it - Steve, Nobby and Dean providing much needed graft to Gareth and Nathan's craft, but with the capacity to alternate between attack and defence, like Doherty between court and rehab. But without tight discipline and effective man management we were gonna suffer again. Despite an encouraging team performance the previous week (with newest rookie Alex making a worthwhile debut) against the speccy wearing twat and his Potter-like magical skills, we'd have to go some to outdo that performance with some spirited pass and move, one touch directness and some godspeed.
With some delight, it was announced we'd be playing on one of the new side-ways scrolling pitches for the first time, all velvety carpetting, none rounded corners, little few black stones. The kind of pitch you could just snuggle into and rub yourself to sleep with. Whilst the dispute will rage on about whether the pitch was larger and the goals were smaller, I think both were true. From a goalkeeper's perspective, it just appeared that the edge of the pitch was an extra half mile from the D, and the overlapping running that saw many of Mollys careening down the wings like a threadbare Zonda, could only have been possible with the space afforded by the generous walls. Either that or the opposition were rank.
Ah, the opposition. My theory is this: Hank and Clive are a gay couple who adopt young ASBO tearaways. A community club like the Red-Hand Gang, or those Why Don't You? shits. Tearaways who can't all afford to be decked out in the team's new black sheen and red piping number; street corner loiterers who only have a white or red shirt in their knapsack on a stick. So the 21st Century's answer to Pippa and her husband who got killed off, bring them to Goals for a kickabout team-bonding value of learning evening. Hence why the opposition never quite seem to be the exact same, and why they appear to have a Youth Offending Team's caseload worth of subs and supporters.
The message and mission was extremely clear. If we don't concede three goals in the first three minutes, in less time it takes to play a Napalm Death song, on repeat, we'd have a chance of winning. Soak up the early pressure like a sponge, then throw that pressure back at them, like a wet sponge. Defend from the front, sharp one touch passing, stick and move like Cassius Clay, local produce, freshly seasoned, simple, delicious. Done.
Thankfully this was no 8-0 whitewash, no 24-10 devastation. We didn’t get belted by lashings of chubby rain, we didn’t get bitch-slapped into submission. Leo didn’t pull his thigh muscles in the warm-up, Nathan had a mirror-image strike partner to reflect off, there was defensive discipline and we rarely played ourselves into danger with over-complicated running and not moving the ball on quick enough.
Wow, this match report has been abandoned.
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Match 3 Season 4 vs.Our Soles
5/12/07 7:45pm
Matt, Steve, Leo, Gareth, Nathan, Michael, Alex, (Dean)
LOST 10-13
Scorers: Gareth 4, Nathan 5, Michael 1
Ratings: Matt 6, Steve 7, Leo 7, Gareth 7, Nathan 7, Michael 7, Alex 7
Matt, Steve, Leo, Gareth, Nathan, Michael, Alex, (Dean)
LOST 10-13
Scorers: Gareth 4, Nathan 5, Michael 1
Ratings: Matt 6, Steve 7, Leo 7, Gareth 7, Nathan 7, Michael 7, Alex 7
Thursday, 29 November 2007
Match 2 Season 4 vs. Real Cupid Stunts
28/11/07 7.00pm
Matt, Steve, Leo, Gareth, Nathan, Michael
LOST 10-24
Scorers: Gareth 5, Nathan 3, Michael 2
Ratings: Matt 5, Steve 5, Leo 5, Gareth 6, Nathan 6, Michael 5
Matt, Steve, Leo, Gareth, Nathan, Michael
LOST 10-24
Scorers: Gareth 5, Nathan 3, Michael 2
Ratings: Matt 5, Steve 5, Leo 5, Gareth 6, Nathan 6, Michael 5
Sunday, 25 November 2007
Portsmouth vs. Southampton - The Rematch
Date: 24/11/07 Time 11:00am
Location: Mountbatten Centre, Portsmouth
Line-Up: Matt, Steve, Leo, Dean, Adam, Michael
Final Score: 12-0
Wow. This was historical. Two years and five days since that controversial 8-8 draw on the frosty coated astro-turf of Southampton’s home-soil, and the re-match finally happened. Despite lots of hollering and keenness to partake in this revenging opportunity, many sure-fire Southampton-ites were unable to come good on their promise. And boy, did you suckers miss out.
A six-strong line-up would go toe to toe with the unknown quantity and quality hordes of Portsmouth’s finest, with a genuine fear of failure given the stacked odds – no recognised striker; the away pitch disadvantage; recent moral-sapping league defeats; and perhaps, most crucially, Portsmouth’s actual desire to play this return fixture. Had it taken two years for them to recruit the necessary super-soldiers? For the steroids to take full effect, and the body-building to maintain the physiques? For the high-altitude, all-weather training return trip to Tibet, to find themselves, to be completed? Or just two years to get a group of colleagues together in the same place at the same time, that doesn’t involve beer directly after work?
Reflective of modern football, only one player was true home-grown talent (moi – the unambitious bastard); the others either lived or worked in Southampton exclusively; or had no connection with Southampton at all; or had no connection with the Service at all (also known as the obligatory ringer). The team were gonna rely on what panned out to be a 3-0-2 formation. A strong defensive line-up of Adam, Steve, and Michael in front of a desperate (to play outfield) Matt, was complimented by the attacking duo equivalent of the Mario Brothers – Deano and Leogi. Their partnership forged in the lost drive through Portsmouth’s North End, burnt out cars and drug-dealing pimps; both lucky that Dean’s shotgun navigating skills didn’t see them driving into the sea.
Add to the fact that Adam’s chrome-rimmed, sports exhaust, pimped out Ford Muppet S, lacking sat-nav, and armour-plating, only managed to find the Mountbatten Centre with the help of Travelodge (I Googled the correct spelling), a map and a highlighter pen, and Matt’s usual suspect last minute organisational skills, and it was verily a surprise, we didn’t concede by non-attendance default.
The pitch was something to behold. Someone had either airlifted it wholesale from the ghetto streets of Rio, or Tony Robinson had given up on dusting off the remaining sand on this ancient pitch discovery. Playing across the length of the main pitch, it’s width meant it almost resembled a square, and the prospect of us playing on such a huge surface area, is probably the same daunting sensation a spider gets dancing on the surface of Matt’s belly.
With it decided to play the match six-a-side, or else die ‘blowing out our ass’, we were not anticipating the quite phenomenal way we dominated this match, played to our individual powers, played to our collective strength, and embarrassed a team of mostly youngsters, some of whom had no shame in wearing a Oki-branded Pompey shirt, and then fully justified their unfortunate mental illness.
There were very cogent reasons why we won this match so emphatically, and the absence of Don as referee was just the tip of the crusty wart. For a start, the kickoff time was 11.15am on a Saturday morning, not 9.15pm on a weekday work night. Personally, I was as psyched as a spring-loaded Energizer bunny tanked on Red Bull and vodkas riding in the lap of Richard Hammond. Secondly, there were no walls – no rebounds off the back; no constant ‘ball in play’ shenanigans – when the ball went out, it stayed out for a little while, allowing breathers and re-grouping, before throw-ins were taken, in contravention of the ‘not above head height’ rule. Thirdly and fourthly - personnel and tactics, with which Southampton displayed the Gold medal Olympic standard, and Portsmouth displayed the school sports day taking part that counts paper rosette.
With their seventh man as substitute and referee, there was some hope that this wasn’t going to turn into some manhood-waving testosterone showdown, and instead resemble a fair contest of attacking verve and defensive swagger. And that’s what you would’ve seen had you been wearing some 3-D style colour glasses that filtered out blue, because it was nothing but the white away shirts of the Southampton team that were bursting out beyond their two-dimensional limitations.
The pitch played to our strengths – the sand-covered carpet providing plenty of velocity for the long direct passes from the back, whether from Adam to Dean, or from Michael and Steve to Leo. The width of the pitch allowed Dean to hug the right wing, receive an almost limitless supply of passes from Adam, and then drill his way in field, with a machine energy, like the Bionic Woman. Leo, meanwhile, stayed more central-left, letting zipped long balls pass him, as he tried to latch on to them with his patented turn-and-panic-shoot philosophy. Without barriers, we got to enjoy the brilliant sensation of taking or defending low-level corners, and watched in hilarious agony, as one Pompey-ite took throw-ins with all the menace and style of a Goal Defence.
With both halves set to run at twenty-five minutes, the first half was dominated by Southampton, Matt bored and frustrated by his defence’s unerring knack to be in the way of Portsmouth’s attack, without barely a hint of any stretch and panic. Matt could only wile away the time dreaming of that mythical bacon butty, on a bed of tortilla chips, in a polystyrene box, that he would soon get to tongue down in ravenous delight. Portsmouth never showed any real attacking nuance in the first half, all their attacks were centralised, exactly where our defenders set up base camp – no point trying to defend half a pitch that size, when the opposition are gonna have to come through you, a bit closer to the goal. The defenders’ close proximity to each other and the goal, coupled with some excellent under the feet tackling, ensured Matt’s hands remained unstung for much of the first half.
Upfront, Dean was hassling every loose ball, defending from the front, whilst Leo was simply riding on the shoulder of the furthest back man, in anticipation of a long pass through the middle, from which he could outpace his marker. Leo’s initial snap-shooting resembled a funfair airgun cowboy pop-up stall, with one desperate to shoot the hick in the outhouse before the door closes, as he cracked shots left, right, straight at the keeper or spooning onto the post. Once he’d twigged there was no time limit, with enough time to draw silhouetted landscapes in the sand, long before the opposition came over the horizon, the goals would eventually come.
The breakthrough came with a Pompey player dancing the holy hell inside the D to give away a cheap penalty, snapped up and packed away like the impulse buyer Dean is. Two goals then followed from Leo, including a nailed on left footer, as the audition for a decent Pompey keeper continued a rotating succession of failures. Michael tucked away another sloppily given away penalty, and would then later barge his way beyond the halfway line to ram home a trademark screamer, just as the Southampton defenders were getting itchy to cross over into enemy territory, and start taking shots.
Whatever the half-time score was, and trying to work out who the current referee was, was like picking out ‘Arry Redknapp in a line-up of cockney wide-boy thieves, we were a comfortable number of goals to the good, with the defence closing off any routes to goal, mainly by inviting the opposition on, and then mugging the ball away from them when they arrived.
The second half saw renewed pressure from Pompey. Their dribbling skills and close range passing was pretty adequate, but lacked penetrative punch. They still remained too close to each other, never stretching our bulky defenders from one width of the pitch to the other, and merely allowed a mass defensive huddle in front of our goal. Once turned over, our counter-attacks were punishingly swift, as Southampton exploited the huge gap i.e. their end of the pitch.
Steve came forward on more than one occasion, trying to justify his missus’ attendance freezing like a popsicle at the corner flag, about a mile away from the action. At the third attempt – having previously shot lame, or been outrun by the goalkeeper coming out of his area! (because “there was no-one else”) – Steve buried the ball home, and his new boots finally lost their cherry innocence.
With the Pompey defence still unable to legislate for the blatantly obvious long ball tactics of Leo’s pace-running, or Dean’s right wing touchline hugging, the two strikers again combined; Leo nipping away a loose ball, from a Dean tackle to slam into the top corner, and followed up with a couple more scorchers (in amongst the howlers he continued to miss) as he stole the ball direct from their centre to blaze unchallenged from his own half to the end zone.
Adam even found the moxy to venture forward to barnstorm another goal for the defenders, and it was probably this camel-breaking straw that everyone but the gaffer had scored, that prompted Matt wanting in on the action, as our keeper came out of his shire-home, on two separate short burst occasions, with Michael taking over the gloves. Hardly weakened by Matt’s Weeble-with-legs routine across the pitch (or how Mr Incredible runs – belly first), the second outing saw him in the nosebleed territory of the opposition half, hassling a defender right on the line, keeping the ball spinning back into play across the D, before being presented with the opportunity to bang his buck. It was anyone’s guess how long it had taken Matt to get that far up the pitch, but the journey back was triumphantly light on the feet.
The desperation, as the time slowly seeped away, was all Southampton’s as they clung onto their clean sheet, like Linus onto his blanket, showing no mercy to gift Portsmouth any sporting consolation. Matt back in goal was still capable of palming a couple of shots over the bar towards the end, but he couldn’t have had an easier time had he locked himself away for a couple of months to grow that ginger goatee of his, and yet it still not be as impressive as the Pompey-ite sporting the super-cool super-beard.
With only a couple of niggles for Steve, baiting opposition players half his age, and supposedly twice his speed, and Adam receiving some knee and knuckle scrapes, the game was played in a good spirit, which is what tends to happen when one team gets beaten out of sight, and the other team do not have the necessary skills to showboat and piss-take from the opposition. As they say, “you got served”.
What made me feel like a 10-year old Russian gymnast being tortured for their sport, was the complete lack of post-match sandwiches that had been provided by our gaffer. Not only did Portsmouth have double the amount of touchline totty (but not the quality, Steve *wink*), but they also had a picnic. What did we have? Oranges? Bacon rolls? Nope. Losers get fed; winners git back on ze buz.
On positive notes, Portsmouth were not so humiliated that talk of a third encounter was immediately dismissed, providing they could actually get together to practise, and the wheels of my car were still there at the end. A brief sojourn into the beautifully plush surroundings of the Centre’s café – replete with bar that wasn’t open, kid’s parties, a wedding function room (book early, folks), and previously mentioned bacon/tortilla chip combo – allowed the team to soak up the emphatic victory on enemy territory, everyone scoring, the clean sheet, the lack (of need) of subs, and just a real sweet way to start Saturday.
Goal Scorers: Dean 1, Leo 6, Michael 2, Steve 1, Adam 1, Matt 1
Match Ratings: Matt 10, Steve 10, Leo 10, Dean 10, Adam 10, Michael 10
Location: Mountbatten Centre, Portsmouth
Line-Up: Matt, Steve, Leo, Dean, Adam, Michael
Final Score: 12-0
Wow. This was historical. Two years and five days since that controversial 8-8 draw on the frosty coated astro-turf of Southampton’s home-soil, and the re-match finally happened. Despite lots of hollering and keenness to partake in this revenging opportunity, many sure-fire Southampton-ites were unable to come good on their promise. And boy, did you suckers miss out.
A six-strong line-up would go toe to toe with the unknown quantity and quality hordes of Portsmouth’s finest, with a genuine fear of failure given the stacked odds – no recognised striker; the away pitch disadvantage; recent moral-sapping league defeats; and perhaps, most crucially, Portsmouth’s actual desire to play this return fixture. Had it taken two years for them to recruit the necessary super-soldiers? For the steroids to take full effect, and the body-building to maintain the physiques? For the high-altitude, all-weather training return trip to Tibet, to find themselves, to be completed? Or just two years to get a group of colleagues together in the same place at the same time, that doesn’t involve beer directly after work?
Reflective of modern football, only one player was true home-grown talent (moi – the unambitious bastard); the others either lived or worked in Southampton exclusively; or had no connection with Southampton at all; or had no connection with the Service at all (also known as the obligatory ringer). The team were gonna rely on what panned out to be a 3-0-2 formation. A strong defensive line-up of Adam, Steve, and Michael in front of a desperate (to play outfield) Matt, was complimented by the attacking duo equivalent of the Mario Brothers – Deano and Leogi. Their partnership forged in the lost drive through Portsmouth’s North End, burnt out cars and drug-dealing pimps; both lucky that Dean’s shotgun navigating skills didn’t see them driving into the sea.
Add to the fact that Adam’s chrome-rimmed, sports exhaust, pimped out Ford Muppet S, lacking sat-nav, and armour-plating, only managed to find the Mountbatten Centre with the help of Travelodge (I Googled the correct spelling), a map and a highlighter pen, and Matt’s usual suspect last minute organisational skills, and it was verily a surprise, we didn’t concede by non-attendance default.
The pitch was something to behold. Someone had either airlifted it wholesale from the ghetto streets of Rio, or Tony Robinson had given up on dusting off the remaining sand on this ancient pitch discovery. Playing across the length of the main pitch, it’s width meant it almost resembled a square, and the prospect of us playing on such a huge surface area, is probably the same daunting sensation a spider gets dancing on the surface of Matt’s belly.
With it decided to play the match six-a-side, or else die ‘blowing out our ass’, we were not anticipating the quite phenomenal way we dominated this match, played to our individual powers, played to our collective strength, and embarrassed a team of mostly youngsters, some of whom had no shame in wearing a Oki-branded Pompey shirt, and then fully justified their unfortunate mental illness.
There were very cogent reasons why we won this match so emphatically, and the absence of Don as referee was just the tip of the crusty wart. For a start, the kickoff time was 11.15am on a Saturday morning, not 9.15pm on a weekday work night. Personally, I was as psyched as a spring-loaded Energizer bunny tanked on Red Bull and vodkas riding in the lap of Richard Hammond. Secondly, there were no walls – no rebounds off the back; no constant ‘ball in play’ shenanigans – when the ball went out, it stayed out for a little while, allowing breathers and re-grouping, before throw-ins were taken, in contravention of the ‘not above head height’ rule. Thirdly and fourthly - personnel and tactics, with which Southampton displayed the Gold medal Olympic standard, and Portsmouth displayed the school sports day taking part that counts paper rosette.
With their seventh man as substitute and referee, there was some hope that this wasn’t going to turn into some manhood-waving testosterone showdown, and instead resemble a fair contest of attacking verve and defensive swagger. And that’s what you would’ve seen had you been wearing some 3-D style colour glasses that filtered out blue, because it was nothing but the white away shirts of the Southampton team that were bursting out beyond their two-dimensional limitations.
The pitch played to our strengths – the sand-covered carpet providing plenty of velocity for the long direct passes from the back, whether from Adam to Dean, or from Michael and Steve to Leo. The width of the pitch allowed Dean to hug the right wing, receive an almost limitless supply of passes from Adam, and then drill his way in field, with a machine energy, like the Bionic Woman. Leo, meanwhile, stayed more central-left, letting zipped long balls pass him, as he tried to latch on to them with his patented turn-and-panic-shoot philosophy. Without barriers, we got to enjoy the brilliant sensation of taking or defending low-level corners, and watched in hilarious agony, as one Pompey-ite took throw-ins with all the menace and style of a Goal Defence.
With both halves set to run at twenty-five minutes, the first half was dominated by Southampton, Matt bored and frustrated by his defence’s unerring knack to be in the way of Portsmouth’s attack, without barely a hint of any stretch and panic. Matt could only wile away the time dreaming of that mythical bacon butty, on a bed of tortilla chips, in a polystyrene box, that he would soon get to tongue down in ravenous delight. Portsmouth never showed any real attacking nuance in the first half, all their attacks were centralised, exactly where our defenders set up base camp – no point trying to defend half a pitch that size, when the opposition are gonna have to come through you, a bit closer to the goal. The defenders’ close proximity to each other and the goal, coupled with some excellent under the feet tackling, ensured Matt’s hands remained unstung for much of the first half.
Upfront, Dean was hassling every loose ball, defending from the front, whilst Leo was simply riding on the shoulder of the furthest back man, in anticipation of a long pass through the middle, from which he could outpace his marker. Leo’s initial snap-shooting resembled a funfair airgun cowboy pop-up stall, with one desperate to shoot the hick in the outhouse before the door closes, as he cracked shots left, right, straight at the keeper or spooning onto the post. Once he’d twigged there was no time limit, with enough time to draw silhouetted landscapes in the sand, long before the opposition came over the horizon, the goals would eventually come.
The breakthrough came with a Pompey player dancing the holy hell inside the D to give away a cheap penalty, snapped up and packed away like the impulse buyer Dean is. Two goals then followed from Leo, including a nailed on left footer, as the audition for a decent Pompey keeper continued a rotating succession of failures. Michael tucked away another sloppily given away penalty, and would then later barge his way beyond the halfway line to ram home a trademark screamer, just as the Southampton defenders were getting itchy to cross over into enemy territory, and start taking shots.
Whatever the half-time score was, and trying to work out who the current referee was, was like picking out ‘Arry Redknapp in a line-up of cockney wide-boy thieves, we were a comfortable number of goals to the good, with the defence closing off any routes to goal, mainly by inviting the opposition on, and then mugging the ball away from them when they arrived.
The second half saw renewed pressure from Pompey. Their dribbling skills and close range passing was pretty adequate, but lacked penetrative punch. They still remained too close to each other, never stretching our bulky defenders from one width of the pitch to the other, and merely allowed a mass defensive huddle in front of our goal. Once turned over, our counter-attacks were punishingly swift, as Southampton exploited the huge gap i.e. their end of the pitch.
Steve came forward on more than one occasion, trying to justify his missus’ attendance freezing like a popsicle at the corner flag, about a mile away from the action. At the third attempt – having previously shot lame, or been outrun by the goalkeeper coming out of his area! (because “there was no-one else”) – Steve buried the ball home, and his new boots finally lost their cherry innocence.
With the Pompey defence still unable to legislate for the blatantly obvious long ball tactics of Leo’s pace-running, or Dean’s right wing touchline hugging, the two strikers again combined; Leo nipping away a loose ball, from a Dean tackle to slam into the top corner, and followed up with a couple more scorchers (in amongst the howlers he continued to miss) as he stole the ball direct from their centre to blaze unchallenged from his own half to the end zone.
Adam even found the moxy to venture forward to barnstorm another goal for the defenders, and it was probably this camel-breaking straw that everyone but the gaffer had scored, that prompted Matt wanting in on the action, as our keeper came out of his shire-home, on two separate short burst occasions, with Michael taking over the gloves. Hardly weakened by Matt’s Weeble-with-legs routine across the pitch (or how Mr Incredible runs – belly first), the second outing saw him in the nosebleed territory of the opposition half, hassling a defender right on the line, keeping the ball spinning back into play across the D, before being presented with the opportunity to bang his buck. It was anyone’s guess how long it had taken Matt to get that far up the pitch, but the journey back was triumphantly light on the feet.
The desperation, as the time slowly seeped away, was all Southampton’s as they clung onto their clean sheet, like Linus onto his blanket, showing no mercy to gift Portsmouth any sporting consolation. Matt back in goal was still capable of palming a couple of shots over the bar towards the end, but he couldn’t have had an easier time had he locked himself away for a couple of months to grow that ginger goatee of his, and yet it still not be as impressive as the Pompey-ite sporting the super-cool super-beard.
With only a couple of niggles for Steve, baiting opposition players half his age, and supposedly twice his speed, and Adam receiving some knee and knuckle scrapes, the game was played in a good spirit, which is what tends to happen when one team gets beaten out of sight, and the other team do not have the necessary skills to showboat and piss-take from the opposition. As they say, “you got served”.
What made me feel like a 10-year old Russian gymnast being tortured for their sport, was the complete lack of post-match sandwiches that had been provided by our gaffer. Not only did Portsmouth have double the amount of touchline totty (but not the quality, Steve *wink*
On positive notes, Portsmouth were not so humiliated that talk of a third encounter was immediately dismissed, providing they could actually get together to practise, and the wheels of my car were still there at the end. A brief sojourn into the beautifully plush surroundings of the Centre’s café – replete with bar that wasn’t open, kid’s parties, a wedding function room (book early, folks), and previously mentioned bacon/tortilla chip combo – allowed the team to soak up the emphatic victory on enemy territory, everyone scoring, the clean sheet, the lack (of need) of subs, and just a real sweet way to start Saturday.
Goal Scorers: Dean 1, Leo 6, Michael 2, Steve 1, Adam 1, Matt 1
Match Ratings: Matt 10, Steve 10, Leo 10, Dean 10, Adam 10, Michael 10
Friday, 23 November 2007
Match 1 Season 4 vs. Legate FC
21/11/07 9.15pm
Matt, Leo, Dean, Nathan, Adam, Michael
LOST 0-8
In my spare time, when not choking on the ethanol soaked rag that is the burden of being the Mollys’ official PR man and recruitment officer, I like to attend live music gigs, and choke on the stench of dry ice and assholes. Whether it’s getting elbowed in the back and ribs whilst standing at the front of an arena gig with three and a half thousand people trying to meld you into the barrier, or standing on the periphery of a nonsensical circle pit whilst emo teens, desperate for human contact, collide with each other whilst you hope at least one faceplants, it’s all good training. It’s good training to stand your ground, to defend your space, to keep focussed your view, to withstand the buffeting and barging from complete strangers. It’s good training for football matches against the kind of opposition we play against, although I still haven’t quite found a use for skilfully avoiding rubbing my groin area against any women in front of me, in spite of the quite wrongly intoxicating pungent smell of female body odour.
With physical training sorted, the psychological training comes from watching inspirational teams battle the odds. The late kick-off of this brand new Molly season in League One had allowed many of us to soak up the first half of that crucial clash between England and Croatia. Never have my eyes been so violated, and the TV been subjected to such verbal abuse, since my VHS copy of Species II became pieces, after a deserved caught in the middle moment between snap and crack.
It was raining that night - every conceivable god imaginable emptying their pisspots over the edge of the heavens - and standing in front of the wall-mounted TV in Goals, watching the second half of that fateful international encounter, was a welcome respite, even when Fat Frank strolled up to score a penalty without the aid of a deflection, as a result of Defoe’s weighty pocketful pieces of silver causing him to tumble. With our opposition nowhere to be seen, and some genuine concern that Nathan and Adam had crossed county for nothing, we stood there longer, and bore witness to that lanky beanpole edge in the equaliser, and our faith in humanity was restored, the rain eased off, and our ref had bothered to find the opposition.
Such positive frames of mind would soon be hanging crooked, as Legate FC had long been on pitch shooting up, and the delay meant our meaningless warming up was curtailed further. The Molly formation and tactics were equally as worthless. When an old man gets on a bus, you give your seat up for him, you let him sit next to the walking stick sticker. When Steve isn’t around, who’s brave enough to sit in his space, when the bus is empty?
Matt, Leo, Dean, Nathan, Adam, Michael
LOST 0-8
In my spare time, when not choking on the ethanol soaked rag that is the burden of being the Mollys’ official PR man and recruitment officer, I like to attend live music gigs, and choke on the stench of dry ice and assholes. Whether it’s getting elbowed in the back and ribs whilst standing at the front of an arena gig with three and a half thousand people trying to meld you into the barrier, or standing on the periphery of a nonsensical circle pit whilst emo teens, desperate for human contact, collide with each other whilst you hope at least one faceplants, it’s all good training. It’s good training to stand your ground, to defend your space, to keep focussed your view, to withstand the buffeting and barging from complete strangers. It’s good training for football matches against the kind of opposition we play against, although I still haven’t quite found a use for skilfully avoiding rubbing my groin area against any women in front of me, in spite of the quite wrongly intoxicating pungent smell of female body odour.
With physical training sorted, the psychological training comes from watching inspirational teams battle the odds. The late kick-off of this brand new Molly season in League One had allowed many of us to soak up the first half of that crucial clash between England and Croatia. Never have my eyes been so violated, and the TV been subjected to such verbal abuse, since my VHS copy of Species II became pieces, after a deserved caught in the middle moment between snap and crack.
It was raining that night - every conceivable god imaginable emptying their pisspots over the edge of the heavens - and standing in front of the wall-mounted TV in Goals, watching the second half of that fateful international encounter, was a welcome respite, even when Fat Frank strolled up to score a penalty without the aid of a deflection, as a result of Defoe’s weighty pocketful pieces of silver causing him to tumble. With our opposition nowhere to be seen, and some genuine concern that Nathan and Adam had crossed county for nothing, we stood there longer, and bore witness to that lanky beanpole edge in the equaliser, and our faith in humanity was restored, the rain eased off, and our ref had bothered to find the opposition.
Such positive frames of mind would soon be hanging crooked, as Legate FC had long been on pitch shooting up, and the delay meant our meaningless warming up was curtailed further. The Molly formation and tactics were equally as worthless. When an old man gets on a bus, you give your seat up for him, you let him sit next to the walking stick sticker. When Steve isn’t around, who’s brave enough to sit in his space, when the bus is empty?
Due to unforeseen circumstances, the end of this report does not exist.
Mollys In Print
All references to a certain company have been removed to protect the innocent.
Click for large version.
Sunday, 18 November 2007
Season 4 Fixture List
We're back into League One, but only because the Wednesday League has lost an entire division's worth of teams. Parking should be easy...Saturday, 17 November 2007
Match 14 Season 3 vs. Real Cupid Stunts
Date: 14/11/07 Time: 19:00
Line-Up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 14.Michael
Final Score: 8-10
Goal Scorers: Gareth 1, Nathan 6, Michael 1
Match Ratings: 7s all round
Line-Up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 14.Michael
Final Score: 8-10
Goal Scorers: Gareth 1, Nathan 6, Michael 1
Match Ratings: 7s all round
Thursday, 8 November 2007
Match 13 Season 3 vs. 86 FC
Date: 7/11/07 Time: 21:15
Line-Up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 6.Robbie 7.Dean 10.Nathan 11.Adam
Line-Up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 6.Robbie 7.Dean 10.Nathan 11.Adam
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
Matches 11 + 12 Season 3 vs. Team Gumtree + The Granite
A GRINDHOUSE DOUBLE FEATURE
Date: 24/10/07 Time: 19:45
Line-Up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 14.Michael
Final Score: 8-14
Goal Scorers: Gareth 3, Nathan 4, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 7, Steve 7, Leo 7, Gareth 7 , Nathan 7, Adam 7, Michael 7
Date: 31/10/07 Time: 20:30
Line-Up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 7.Dean 10.Nathan 11.Adam
Final Score: 5-10
Goals Scorers: Nathan 5
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Nobby 6, Steve's new boots 5, Leo 6, Dean 6, Nathan 7, Adam 6
Man of The Match: Nathan
“You are the money maker. She is yours for the taking. You know you wanna make her. Show her your money maker”
Horror. The theme of this report is horror. In the spirit of the season (which will be long over by the time this gets published) I will fly high the concept without using such phrases as ‘horror show’ or ‘blood bath’. I know some would prefer talk of trains, but I’ll try to marry horror and football together with the same tenuous link that Michael Jackson has with his kids, the same happy result as Leslie Fishlips and Lee Chapman.
When we think of horror we think of ripped open heads, flayed skin, demonic clowns, another fricking Saw movie. Our minds are awash with moving imagery of vampires, cenobites, walking undead. One doesn’t immediately think of mass graves, paedophilia, gas chambers, and serial killers. Real horror, not jumped up Hallowe’en hoodoo, which only appeals to the morons who still think Bod is cool, and listen to music by Anal C*nt. So from real human atrocities, we segue neatly into real football atrocities. Tenuous, oh yeah.
Match 11 against Team Gumtree was a chance to avenge the previous published self-inflicted amputation of foot via shotgun blast, when a scintillating first half of metaphorical casual topless sex, gave way to a horror bath of a blood show second half slaughter fest (again, metaphorical). Match 12 against The Granite was another opportunity to attack melee against one of the lower class of human species, like people under the stairs.
But as Death Proof was lots of sexy visuals without enough bloodletting, and Planet Terror was chaotic enthusiasm without gore control, so matches 11 and 12 were similarly dissimilar, but still frightening.
The Molly line-up for the game against Gumtree looked reasonably balanced, with four defenders capable of marauding forward to support the Corey twins upfront. This game was all about the attacking qualities of the sides - leave the shambolic defending falling from the balcony into an unfortunately placed glass table.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that, if Steve is in the starting line-up of 5 for a match, we will lose. A crusty black-spotted pirate curse, or perhaps something knows what you did last world war, burying (alive) someone at sea? Back in season four of ’05, Steve played 8 games, and we lost them all, and back then he was scoring. Nowadays, it’s not an exaggeration to suggest that Steve might just be the killer amongst us, the ringer within. And it didn’t take long for Steve to suffer the hex, being smashed through the foot by a weapon-assisted opposition boot, like a machete through bone. Thankfully the injury wasn’t free-carriage-clock-insurance bad, but would subsequently prompt a boot change, but more on this stunning cliffhanger later.
There was less blocking going on from us, more standing off from us, and more watching from us as precision driven nail gun long range speed shots from the opposition were railed through Matt into goal. On the unrated flipside, the same space being afforded to the opposition was being afforded to our Mickey and Mallory to carve axe wounds into their back line. This is an opposition who are incredibly poor tacklers, who stand off our front men, when they have backs to goal, and who aren’t major hack and slash merchants. Steve and Matt might disagree, especially as Matt got another wet ball kick-slapped to his groin from the blade runner, long after the whistle had gone, but that prick was just one cock amongst a generally good spirited team, who liked to attack old men and helpless keepers.
When Nathan and Gareth linked up successfully, there was some nice intricate catherine wheel sparks flying, but when the defence managed to link up with the attack, there were some h-bomb mega-focker rockets flying. Leo ran onto a neat parry from Nathan down the right wing to two-touch vaporise a low tight shot in off the far post, and the back line conspired to play a neat triangle of passing possession that included the lummox, with Adam successfully shifting the ball toward a team mate, as Gareth finished the sweet-ass move.
Steve, Adam and Michael continued to lap at the dry blood on the ceiling of goal-scoring success, with only Michael’s toe-pokes of terror threatening – threatening like a razor blade in a rotten apple. But it’s indicative of this season’s haplessness, that there’s been the over-reliance on Nathan and Gareth’s goal-scoring, never better illustrated than in the chances blown in the subsequent game, but more on this stunning cliffhanger later. Only Leo has threatened the duoploy, and by threatened I mean scored over two dozen goals less.
Still Nathan proceeded to run half the pitch, the gauntlet, himself and the ball through a swath of shitty tackling to crown off another stunning goal of the match solo effort. Remember it when it worked (remember when Krueger was actually scary), because he’d attempt such Maradona-like running over thirty times the following week, and ended up like looking like Madonna wading through pig-shit (ended up scary as Scissorhands).
The match was always close, but with just a few minutes to go, and the Mollys down by just two, we just seemed to cave in and get ripped apart in some clever metaphorically horror-related way. And so Match 11 ended 8-15. There was enough treats to suggest we could be cute enough to get the door open for some free sweets, but not enough trick to distract them long enough to nip round the back and steal their TV.
The match against The Granite the following week was just bizarre, in a David Lynch dream sequence kind of way. With Gareth’s nose infested with bacteria, it was left to Nathan to shoulder the goal-scoring burden, although he seemed intent on single-handedly dragging Dean and Nobby around with him, like Myers drags corpses.
We got shanked and gutted before the title credits even had a chance to roll, conceding three in half the time. It wasn’t entirely clear if Steve had bought his new Nike Astroturf footwear from a mythical Chinaman, and ignored the three warnings, but his initial passing endeavours were suicidally inept, and not likely to trouble Ronaldinho for commercial endorsements.
Further bloodshed at the back, as a braindead backpass by Adam, from Matt’s short throwout, saw the Mollys concede the simplest of punished penalties. And with no settled positions at the back – Leo flitting in and out of the defence like subliminal devil shots, and with the same potency – the backside of the Mollys looked thoroughly anally probed.
Date: 24/10/07 Time: 19:45
Line-Up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 14.Michael
Final Score: 8-14
Goal Scorers: Gareth 3, Nathan 4, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 7, Steve 7, Leo 7, Gareth 7 , Nathan 7, Adam 7, Michael 7
Date: 31/10/07 Time: 20:30
Line-Up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 7.Dean 10.Nathan 11.Adam
Final Score: 5-10
Goals Scorers: Nathan 5
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Nobby 6, Steve's new boots 5, Leo 6, Dean 6, Nathan 7, Adam 6
Man of The Match: Nathan
“You are the money maker. She is yours for the taking. You know you wanna make her. Show her your money maker”
Horror. The theme of this report is horror. In the spirit of the season (which will be long over by the time this gets published) I will fly high the concept without using such phrases as ‘horror show’ or ‘blood bath’. I know some would prefer talk of trains, but I’ll try to marry horror and football together with the same tenuous link that Michael Jackson has with his kids, the same happy result as Leslie Fishlips and Lee Chapman.
When we think of horror we think of ripped open heads, flayed skin, demonic clowns, another fricking Saw movie. Our minds are awash with moving imagery of vampires, cenobites, walking undead. One doesn’t immediately think of mass graves, paedophilia, gas chambers, and serial killers. Real horror, not jumped up Hallowe’en hoodoo, which only appeals to the morons who still think Bod is cool, and listen to music by Anal C*nt. So from real human atrocities, we segue neatly into real football atrocities. Tenuous, oh yeah.
Match 11 against Team Gumtree was a chance to avenge the previous published self-inflicted amputation of foot via shotgun blast, when a scintillating first half of metaphorical casual topless sex, gave way to a horror bath of a blood show second half slaughter fest (again, metaphorical). Match 12 against The Granite was another opportunity to attack melee against one of the lower class of human species, like people under the stairs.
But as Death Proof was lots of sexy visuals without enough bloodletting, and Planet Terror was chaotic enthusiasm without gore control, so matches 11 and 12 were similarly dissimilar, but still frightening.
The Molly line-up for the game against Gumtree looked reasonably balanced, with four defenders capable of marauding forward to support the Corey twins upfront. This game was all about the attacking qualities of the sides - leave the shambolic defending falling from the balcony into an unfortunately placed glass table.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that, if Steve is in the starting line-up of 5 for a match, we will lose. A crusty black-spotted pirate curse, or perhaps something knows what you did last world war, burying (alive) someone at sea? Back in season four of ’05, Steve played 8 games, and we lost them all, and back then he was scoring. Nowadays, it’s not an exaggeration to suggest that Steve might just be the killer amongst us, the ringer within. And it didn’t take long for Steve to suffer the hex, being smashed through the foot by a weapon-assisted opposition boot, like a machete through bone. Thankfully the injury wasn’t free-carriage-clock-insurance bad, but would subsequently prompt a boot change, but more on this stunning cliffhanger later.
There was less blocking going on from us, more standing off from us, and more watching from us as precision driven nail gun long range speed shots from the opposition were railed through Matt into goal. On the unrated flipside, the same space being afforded to the opposition was being afforded to our Mickey and Mallory to carve axe wounds into their back line. This is an opposition who are incredibly poor tacklers, who stand off our front men, when they have backs to goal, and who aren’t major hack and slash merchants. Steve and Matt might disagree, especially as Matt got another wet ball kick-slapped to his groin from the blade runner, long after the whistle had gone, but that prick was just one cock amongst a generally good spirited team, who liked to attack old men and helpless keepers.
When Nathan and Gareth linked up successfully, there was some nice intricate catherine wheel sparks flying, but when the defence managed to link up with the attack, there were some h-bomb mega-focker rockets flying. Leo ran onto a neat parry from Nathan down the right wing to two-touch vaporise a low tight shot in off the far post, and the back line conspired to play a neat triangle of passing possession that included the lummox, with Adam successfully shifting the ball toward a team mate, as Gareth finished the sweet-ass move.
Steve, Adam and Michael continued to lap at the dry blood on the ceiling of goal-scoring success, with only Michael’s toe-pokes of terror threatening – threatening like a razor blade in a rotten apple. But it’s indicative of this season’s haplessness, that there’s been the over-reliance on Nathan and Gareth’s goal-scoring, never better illustrated than in the chances blown in the subsequent game, but more on this stunning cliffhanger later. Only Leo has threatened the duoploy, and by threatened I mean scored over two dozen goals less.
Still Nathan proceeded to run half the pitch, the gauntlet, himself and the ball through a swath of shitty tackling to crown off another stunning goal of the match solo effort. Remember it when it worked (remember when Krueger was actually scary), because he’d attempt such Maradona-like running over thirty times the following week, and ended up like looking like Madonna wading through pig-shit (ended up scary as Scissorhands).
The match was always close, but with just a few minutes to go, and the Mollys down by just two, we just seemed to cave in and get ripped apart in some clever metaphorically horror-related way. And so Match 11 ended 8-15. There was enough treats to suggest we could be cute enough to get the door open for some free sweets, but not enough trick to distract them long enough to nip round the back and steal their TV.
The match against The Granite the following week was just bizarre, in a David Lynch dream sequence kind of way. With Gareth’s nose infested with bacteria, it was left to Nathan to shoulder the goal-scoring burden, although he seemed intent on single-handedly dragging Dean and Nobby around with him, like Myers drags corpses.
We got shanked and gutted before the title credits even had a chance to roll, conceding three in half the time. It wasn’t entirely clear if Steve had bought his new Nike Astroturf footwear from a mythical Chinaman, and ignored the three warnings, but his initial passing endeavours were suicidally inept, and not likely to trouble Ronaldinho for commercial endorsements.
Further bloodshed at the back, as a braindead backpass by Adam, from Matt’s short throwout, saw the Mollys concede the simplest of punished penalties. And with no settled positions at the back – Leo flitting in and out of the defence like subliminal devil shots, and with the same potency – the backside of the Mollys looked thoroughly anally probed.
Upfront was hardly the face of industry, light and magic either. With Nathan seemingly determined to beat every opposite man twice over, and then once again, and failing dozens of time, the opposition took on an almost supernatural presence. Nathan tried every trick in his foot arsenal, as he metaphorically stabbed, shot, and slashed away at the opposing army of darkness, but frequently found himself crowded out, turned over and buried under bodies.
Of course had he tried recruiting Dean or Nobby to the crusade, to gang up on the bogeyman, things may have had a sequel-worthy ending. Every survival horror enthusiast knows it’s always the spunky girl (aka Dean) and the asexual best friend (aka Nobby) that finish the film against the odds – not the sports jock.
That’s not to say it was all bad. For reasons that could only be put down to their misplaced shooting, the opposition were only 6-4 up at half-time; Nathan having been allowed to escape from his chains on enough occasions to score, before being dragged back to his cell.
Second half was much the same, with even less things worth talking about. Adam made up for his gross error of judgement in the first half, by firstly not panicking when he found himself in the opposition half, and then doing that trademark lumbering shadowing shuffle across the back of an opposing defender, clipping their heels sufficiently enough, for them to resort to passing back to their keeper, and the winning of the penalty. Nathan coolly slotted home the only Molly goal of the second half, and the beast merely stumbled.
With news of Jon’s pretty much ‘stone-dead on a slab’ chances of return, and a tearful permanent retirement of the number 8 shirt, the loss of our only real attacking midfielder was never more keenly felt than in this match, with the link between attack and defence crude. As usual, opposition who seem to take a significant lead against us, always get frustrated when they aren’t slaughtering us, or kicking us when we’re down. The height of disrespect of course was some ‘hope he’s first to die’ jerkoff standing the ball on the D line, in a time wasting exercise, that ranked up there with watching the sequel to the remake of a shit horror film in the first place (you know what you are).
The game finished 10-5, which doesn’t truly reflect the opposition’s dominance, and our inability to string anything approaching a plan together. The kind of horror that keeps you awake at night, if you weren’t so medicated up to eyeballs on Haloperidol, and still feeling the aftershocks of the ECT. A nightmare that The Molly Maguires seem to be forever living.
As Matt threatened to relieve himself of the gaffer tenure, and everyone ignored his pleas for someone to take over, even at the threat of having to sort out their own 'shifts' as our previous gaffer had done before, because grown men can't seem to get their shit together, it reminded me how much I missed Deano's pocket-sized emailed movie reviews. And so in homage, I present my review of Captivity (available now on DVD) - Utterly stupid. The kidnapper pretends to be another captive in order to protect the real female victim, who is so grateful that he puts his life on the line (but doesn't actually rescue her), that she has sex with him, whilst still trapped, still under threat of her face being burnt off, still under the prying eye of the 'kidnapper'. I've heard of the Stockholm Syndrome, and movie sex at ridiculous times - but WHAT THE FUCK?
Thursday, 18 October 2007
Match 10 Season 3 vs. Sumo Boys 2
Date: 17/10/07 Time: 19:00
Won 10-0 by default
Opposition now become 'Unassigned'
Won 10-0 by default
Opposition now become 'Unassigned'
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?!
Friday, 31 August 2007
Match 3 Season 3 vs. Sumo Boys 2
Date: 29/8/07 Time: 19:45
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam
(n.b. probably offensive to someone)
ODE TO THE FEMALE REFEREE
The evening began like almost all
A team without a worthy ball
As Leo pushed hard to make inflate
The ball Nobby held in limp-like state
On the pitch things looked better
As one’s gusset got moist and wetter
For there a female ref with ass so pert
Running with a middle third leg sure can hurt
With hair so blonde and head of air
You couldn’t help but leer and stare
Shame she couldn’t ref for shit
A distraction with her perky tits
With shoulder charges and tackles wild
Unpunished like a spoilt brat child
The Mollys merely huffed and puffed
Playing like their legs were cuffed
So the ref couldn’t make a choice
Barely raised her plaintive voice
As decisions arbitrary got made
And our hopes of victory fade
Athletically she ran across the pitch
And we imagined she wore not a stitch
Sex appeal she did not lack
That beautiful babe in the black
Our team tactics just could not cope
As full-time losers off pitch we slope
But to a gorgeous honey we had to thank
Visual treat for that consolation wank
Final Score: 6-9
Goal scorers: Leo 1, Nobby 1, Gareth 2, Nathan 2
Match Ratings: Matt 5, Nobby 5, Steve 5, Leo 5, Gareth 5, Nathan 5, Adam 5
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam
(n.b. probably offensive to someone)
ODE TO THE FEMALE REFEREE
The evening began like almost all
A team without a worthy ball
As Leo pushed hard to make inflate
The ball Nobby held in limp-like state
On the pitch things looked better
As one’s gusset got moist and wetter
For there a female ref with ass so pert
Running with a middle third leg sure can hurt
With hair so blonde and head of air
You couldn’t help but leer and stare
Shame she couldn’t ref for shit
A distraction with her perky tits
With shoulder charges and tackles wild
Unpunished like a spoilt brat child
The Mollys merely huffed and puffed
Playing like their legs were cuffed
So the ref couldn’t make a choice
Barely raised her plaintive voice
As decisions arbitrary got made
And our hopes of victory fade
Athletically she ran across the pitch
And we imagined she wore not a stitch
Sex appeal she did not lack
That beautiful babe in the black
Our team tactics just could not cope
As full-time losers off pitch we slope
But to a gorgeous honey we had to thank
Visual treat for that consolation wank
Final Score: 6-9
Goal scorers: Leo 1, Nobby 1, Gareth 2, Nathan 2
Match Ratings: Matt 5, Nobby 5, Steve 5, Leo 5, Gareth 5, Nathan 5, Adam 5
Thursday, 23 August 2007
Match 2 Season 3 vs. Just For Football
Date: 22/8/07 Time: 19:00
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 14.Michael
“I’ve been waiting. I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life. But it’s not quite right”
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 14.Michael
“I’ve been waiting. I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life. But it’s not quite right”
Early kick-offs used to be the delight of many a squad member. Back in the Hatton days of leadership, you’d get all the fair-weather players (i.e. Pete) suddenly available, and the announced squad would be a kind of reward scheme for those who’d braved the (shudder) 10 o’clock kick-offs.
Nowadays, people are up to their armpits in baby poop; they have kids who want to see EastEnders before bed-time; have demanding girlfriends, who insist you come with them and ogle their hockey team-mates in ra-ra skirts and spanky pants; or are wimps, too tired to travel home from work and then onwards to Millbrook in time.
So the team was a little short this week, such that Steve’s return from injury was just as welcome as finding a Werther’s Original behind a sofa cushion with only a little hair on it. With Matt’s fiancée’s brother being introduced into another extended family, this was a bottom heavy defensive line-up, that could’ve been detrimental, but in fact proved to be the Castle Grayskull of defensive foundations.
Make no mistake, Matt is soiling some superior genetic family material. A hulk of a man-mountain, Michael’s size and bulk actually meant something advantageous (unlike Adam and Don) in a sub-level mid-stage boss henchman kind of way, that you’d find in any good martial arts movie.
This was a game of records. The first of which was the fastest goal ever scored, probably anywhere ever. With Nathan worth at least one goal direct from kick-off a game, he wasted no time in notching up his first of the game, with the first sodding kick of the match. Doing that school play “are we ready?” acting, he performs that on the spot Chun-Li spin kick of his, to raze the ball home, and then tries desperately to keep the smuggest of grins off his face. The kind of smug you’d wanna slap off his face, were it not for the fact he’s on your side, and embarrassing the opposition with aplomb.
In open play, Just For Football had the right ideas, but totally the wrong execution. Playing an over-elaborate passing game that they just didn’t have the moxy to accomplish. Performing drag backs with the hugest of turning circles in the least damaging areas of the pitch. Shielding the ball from their marker with the uncouth audacity to back their ass right onto my cock. This was the equivalent of rendering the Sistine Chapel ceiling with Crayola.
Such frivolous opposition play meant for the Mollys complete non-stop end-to-end action, constant turnovers, relentless counter-attacks, 50-50 challenges, enough space to roll Beth Ditto’s fat ass through. Gareth and Nathan were sparking riots up top, Steve and Michael were patrolling the defensive perimeter, leaving Leo in an unaccustomed role of box-to-box runner.
Nathan snaffled a double hat-trick of goals, most of them unclean ricochets, including an own goal that his mere presence elicited such panic that JFF thought that suicidal defending was the better opt out; strike partner Gareth whacked in four, as the pair of them got overzealous with shooting at the opposition’s less than adequate keeper. Even new boy Michael weighed in with two on his debut, a ferocious toe-poke, and, for the second record of the game, a well-struck bullish blast from so far behind the halfway line that their keeper must’ve thought a bullet train from Japan was about to run him down.
At the back, Matt must’ve been day-dreaming of biscuits, as he got fooled, foxed and flummoxed on a number of occasions to give the opposition and their shouty, unkempt stinking spokesman enough opportunities to make the scoreline half-respectable, when they thoroughly deserved no such charity. At least Steve passed his fitness test with no ill-effects, and Michael needed no babysitting whilst the amok was running upfront.
The lack of a seventh man didn’t seem to hinder us much, and the balance of the side against such lower opposition was always the right side of Jenga. In fact, had Leo not found the keeper in scintillating form for his shots, and seemingly his shots alone, this could and should’ve been an absolute Manson massacre.
The game ended with a satisfactory 12-7 scoreline, keeping the Mollys well positioned in the upper echelons of the table, but with later kick-offs to come, expect the Molly Maguires B-team to be unleashed on an unexpecting league.
Final Score: 12-7
Nowadays, people are up to their armpits in baby poop; they have kids who want to see EastEnders before bed-time; have demanding girlfriends, who insist you come with them and ogle their hockey team-mates in ra-ra skirts and spanky pants; or are wimps, too tired to travel home from work and then onwards to Millbrook in time.
So the team was a little short this week, such that Steve’s return from injury was just as welcome as finding a Werther’s Original behind a sofa cushion with only a little hair on it. With Matt’s fiancée’s brother being introduced into another extended family, this was a bottom heavy defensive line-up, that could’ve been detrimental, but in fact proved to be the Castle Grayskull of defensive foundations.
Make no mistake, Matt is soiling some superior genetic family material. A hulk of a man-mountain, Michael’s size and bulk actually meant something advantageous (unlike Adam and Don) in a sub-level mid-stage boss henchman kind of way, that you’d find in any good martial arts movie.
This was a game of records. The first of which was the fastest goal ever scored, probably anywhere ever. With Nathan worth at least one goal direct from kick-off a game, he wasted no time in notching up his first of the game, with the first sodding kick of the match. Doing that school play “are we ready?” acting, he performs that on the spot Chun-Li spin kick of his, to raze the ball home, and then tries desperately to keep the smuggest of grins off his face. The kind of smug you’d wanna slap off his face, were it not for the fact he’s on your side, and embarrassing the opposition with aplomb.
In open play, Just For Football had the right ideas, but totally the wrong execution. Playing an over-elaborate passing game that they just didn’t have the moxy to accomplish. Performing drag backs with the hugest of turning circles in the least damaging areas of the pitch. Shielding the ball from their marker with the uncouth audacity to back their ass right onto my cock. This was the equivalent of rendering the Sistine Chapel ceiling with Crayola.
Such frivolous opposition play meant for the Mollys complete non-stop end-to-end action, constant turnovers, relentless counter-attacks, 50-50 challenges, enough space to roll Beth Ditto’s fat ass through. Gareth and Nathan were sparking riots up top, Steve and Michael were patrolling the defensive perimeter, leaving Leo in an unaccustomed role of box-to-box runner.
Nathan snaffled a double hat-trick of goals, most of them unclean ricochets, including an own goal that his mere presence elicited such panic that JFF thought that suicidal defending was the better opt out; strike partner Gareth whacked in four, as the pair of them got overzealous with shooting at the opposition’s less than adequate keeper. Even new boy Michael weighed in with two on his debut, a ferocious toe-poke, and, for the second record of the game, a well-struck bullish blast from so far behind the halfway line that their keeper must’ve thought a bullet train from Japan was about to run him down.
At the back, Matt must’ve been day-dreaming of biscuits, as he got fooled, foxed and flummoxed on a number of occasions to give the opposition and their shouty, unkempt stinking spokesman enough opportunities to make the scoreline half-respectable, when they thoroughly deserved no such charity. At least Steve passed his fitness test with no ill-effects, and Michael needed no babysitting whilst the amok was running upfront.
The lack of a seventh man didn’t seem to hinder us much, and the balance of the side against such lower opposition was always the right side of Jenga. In fact, had Leo not found the keeper in scintillating form for his shots, and seemingly his shots alone, this could and should’ve been an absolute Manson massacre.
The game ended with a satisfactory 12-7 scoreline, keeping the Mollys well positioned in the upper echelons of the table, but with later kick-offs to come, expect the Molly Maguires B-team to be unleashed on an unexpecting league.
Final Score: 12-7
Goal scorers: Gareth 4, Nathan 6, Michael 2
Match ratings: Matt 6, Steve 7, Leo7, Gareth 8, Nathan 8, Michael 8
Match ratings: Matt 6, Steve 7, Leo7, Gareth 8, Nathan 8, Michael 8
Man of the Match: Michael
Wednesday, 15 August 2007
Match 1 Season 3 vs. Hank & Clive
Date: 15/8/07 Time: 21:15
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 12.Aneel
“There goes another moment. Just wrap it up, we own it. The night’s a skill, we hone it”
The opening paragraph. It sets the tone, the theme, the thread. The absolutely most essential part of any Lungboy match report. Which I’ve just completely wasted.
With the team still enraptured with talk of last week’s game – from Matt’s controversial overlookedness as man of the match by this report author, to everything about Jon’s injury, a fanciful farce from beginning to end, it was almost unnoticed that the gaffer had successfully secured the services of a full squad, with Dean and Aneel back for a consecutive night game, like vampiric streetwalkers. The added bonus of Robbie’s cheerleader appearance in full Molly regalia, ready to step into the breach if necessary, was more boost to a suffering squad, with Steve also set to roll out the barrel once again, next week.
First game of the new campaign and the return of a familiar foe. For them. Adam “Animal” Langrish.* The opposition must’ve been wetting their kecks at the sight of the quaffed one lumbering around in the warm-up - still smarting from the pinch marks, and stretchy shirts, of his pushing and pulling style of consequential defending. Notwithstanding that, Hank & Clive had seemingly metamorphosised from League 1 whipping cream boys with a cherry on top, to cherry-busting whip-loving sadists with a new found belief, thanks it seem, to a last week only win; a reliance on a short-stop speed merc with a bullet drizzling right foot; a new keeper; and a spot of verbal aggression.
The first few minutes were full of poking and prodding, each team trying to find the vital nerve to paralyse the opposition, but it was H&C that finally drew first blood, a pacey shot going wide found Leo’s leg in its way, catapulting it’s trajectory goalward, leaving Matt stranded, in what, in real comparatory terms is a very small area to cover.
On some sub-conscious level we had to have been playing shit for a reason, that first half. Unable to mirror and counter-act the opposition’s shape, because they had none, we looked like four outfield individuals doing whatever we damned well please with the ball, wherever we were on the pitch. With Leo anchored as sweeper, it let loose our more skilful players, with a free licence to run with the ball, Aneel, Nathan and Gareth frequently attempting to bust through layers of players.
However, now on the receiving end of counter attacks and directly troubled by their pacey little man, shots were arcing at Matt from the wings, like tracer bullets – pace and precision cutting through defenders and keeper alike.
The Mollys were making incredibly hard work of it. The simple pass and move and move and pass tactic of our previous encounter was lost to excessive holding-on of the ball, like a demented rugby league game – carry the ball forward, get fouled, move the ball on again, get fouled. Thankfully H&C are not the greatest team in the tackle, and the usual bait and switch was allowing Nathan to score a family feast bucketload of some of the most fluke-assisted goals this side of a Dubious Goals panel. Gareth had also found his shooting boots, scoring the more prestigious goals of the partnership, including a goal of the match wave-riding assault down the right wing before lashing home.
Yet for all our bluster upfront, the marking and covering was as haphazard as schoolboys chasing after the tennis ball in the playground. Frequently double-teaming on the more skilled opposition, and that was before Adam started to plow into the melee looking for a foot to accidently catch, ultimately left canyons of space on the edge of D for undisturbed wank shots at Matt (I hasten to add whilst Leo was off the pitch). It was luck that got us one goal ahead from a losing position at halftime, and it was their kick-out frustration that kept us there.
I’m gonna lay this mutha-funsting report to bed now, even though it reeks of sub-standard amateurness by my own high standards. It’s been an absolute bane for the last two weeks, and quite frankly I’m sick of it. Shit, I gotta another two reports to write before Wednesday? Who do I have to sleep with around here to get a better deal?
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 12.Aneel
“There goes another moment. Just wrap it up, we own it. The night’s a skill, we hone it”
The opening paragraph. It sets the tone, the theme, the thread. The absolutely most essential part of any Lungboy match report. Which I’ve just completely wasted.
With the team still enraptured with talk of last week’s game – from Matt’s controversial overlookedness as man of the match by this report author, to everything about Jon’s injury, a fanciful farce from beginning to end, it was almost unnoticed that the gaffer had successfully secured the services of a full squad, with Dean and Aneel back for a consecutive night game, like vampiric streetwalkers. The added bonus of Robbie’s cheerleader appearance in full Molly regalia, ready to step into the breach if necessary, was more boost to a suffering squad, with Steve also set to roll out the barrel once again, next week.
First game of the new campaign and the return of a familiar foe. For them. Adam “Animal” Langrish.* The opposition must’ve been wetting their kecks at the sight of the quaffed one lumbering around in the warm-up - still smarting from the pinch marks, and stretchy shirts, of his pushing and pulling style of consequential defending. Notwithstanding that, Hank & Clive had seemingly metamorphosised from League 1 whipping cream boys with a cherry on top, to cherry-busting whip-loving sadists with a new found belief, thanks it seem, to a last week only win; a reliance on a short-stop speed merc with a bullet drizzling right foot; a new keeper; and a spot of verbal aggression.
The first few minutes were full of poking and prodding, each team trying to find the vital nerve to paralyse the opposition, but it was H&C that finally drew first blood, a pacey shot going wide found Leo’s leg in its way, catapulting it’s trajectory goalward, leaving Matt stranded, in what, in real comparatory terms is a very small area to cover.
On some sub-conscious level we had to have been playing shit for a reason, that first half. Unable to mirror and counter-act the opposition’s shape, because they had none, we looked like four outfield individuals doing whatever we damned well please with the ball, wherever we were on the pitch. With Leo anchored as sweeper, it let loose our more skilful players, with a free licence to run with the ball, Aneel, Nathan and Gareth frequently attempting to bust through layers of players.
However, now on the receiving end of counter attacks and directly troubled by their pacey little man, shots were arcing at Matt from the wings, like tracer bullets – pace and precision cutting through defenders and keeper alike.
The Mollys were making incredibly hard work of it. The simple pass and move and move and pass tactic of our previous encounter was lost to excessive holding-on of the ball, like a demented rugby league game – carry the ball forward, get fouled, move the ball on again, get fouled. Thankfully H&C are not the greatest team in the tackle, and the usual bait and switch was allowing Nathan to score a family feast bucketload of some of the most fluke-assisted goals this side of a Dubious Goals panel. Gareth had also found his shooting boots, scoring the more prestigious goals of the partnership, including a goal of the match wave-riding assault down the right wing before lashing home.
Yet for all our bluster upfront, the marking and covering was as haphazard as schoolboys chasing after the tennis ball in the playground. Frequently double-teaming on the more skilled opposition, and that was before Adam started to plow into the melee looking for a foot to accidently catch, ultimately left canyons of space on the edge of D for undisturbed wank shots at Matt (I hasten to add whilst Leo was off the pitch). It was luck that got us one goal ahead from a losing position at halftime, and it was their kick-out frustration that kept us there.
I’m gonna lay this mutha-funsting report to bed now, even though it reeks of sub-standard amateurness by my own high standards. It’s been an absolute bane for the last two weeks, and quite frankly I’m sick of it. Shit, I gotta another two reports to write before Wednesday? Who do I have to sleep with around here to get a better deal?
Final Score: 10-9
Goal Scorers: Nathan 4, Gareth 5, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 7, Leo 7, Dean 7, Gareth 7, Nathan 7, Adam 7, Aneel 7
*As people are aware, I’m happy stealing jokes and observations from fellow players to pad out match reports. Journalist first, storymaker second. But I still prefer “lummox”.
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
Match 14 - Season 2 (summer)
Match 14 vs. The Vigilantes 8/8/07 21:15
LOST 5-10
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 8.Jon 9.Gareth 15.Aneel
LOST 5-10
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 8.Jon 9.Gareth 15.Aneel
“It’s a cruel, cruel summer, leaving me here on my own. It’s a cruel, cruel summer, now you’re gone.”
It’s been a difficult, testing second season. A season derided from the start with an undeserved and unwelcome promotion into League 1. A season that started like Superman – The Movie, improved with added Zod, and ended with the bummest note of Richard Pryor stealing virtual cents, and a missile attack sequence powered by a Sega Megadrive*.
The squad took a real Barton of a beating. There was the permanent retirement of the Sheriff and the Turk; Dean “The Hatman” Hatton limited to late night cameos, like boobs on Bravo; and Steve missing the season’s second half through senile dementia. Don, Aneel, and Adam made significant contributions, with no one being a fringe player – only Gareth (and Matt) showed anything like consistent and consecutive appearances. It wasn’t all boo-hoo. Nobby made a solid man-of-the-match winning return to action, and Mark provided plenty of column inch ammunition as the latest recipient of the Cluff Golden Wank Rag Award.
With the team conceding 18 goals on three occasions, and only 2 real victories (and a draw) to show for their troubles, the thrill of next season against inferior League 2 opposition stirs in the loins.
Having previously upstaged Derren Brown’s goatee by predicting Nobby’s availability the previous week, Matt outdoes himself again this week, with the memory of a dead elephant and the deniability of Barrymore, by naming a known-to-be-injured Nobby in the squad. Another scoop from the 3am Girls.
So another six man line-up faced/off against an unbeaten, but not unbeatable, Vigilantes side. A six man line-up that did themselves the utmost credit, until two injuries cut the heel tendons from under them with five minutes to go.
Right from the get go, the Mollys were under pressure, but as is their want, the team play best against better skilled teams when under the cosh. With the opposition having the fat kid’s share of the possession cake, it was up to the Vigilantes to create the space, to create the shooting opportunities, and then for the Mollys to seize on any fuck-up, any lucky break, and to counter-attack with ruthless aggression.
Not quite man-marking, not quite zonal, this was still the most combative, disciplined, tactically sound display the Mollys have put on for some time. With Leo operating as sweeper in the final third of the pitch relentlessly getting blocks in on the opposition shooting, the attacking quartet of Jon, Dean, Aneel, and Gareth were having to work their proverbial nutsacks off, in not only going forward to attack, but having to weigh in with challenges in the middle third, and track-back down the wings.
This constant baby-sitting forced the Vigilantes to take long-range pot-shots, or tight angled whips across the D that Matt was making look better than actual, with his over-exuberant one-for-the-photo-album saving. Still Matt’s efficient keeping, and the team’s spoiler tactics were having the desired psychological effect on the opposition’s mistaken belief that their victory was as inevitable as death, taxes, and another series of My Family…..
Rudimentary whinging at the referee, mixed with incessant hack and slash as the opposition followed their coach’s tactics to attack, attack, attack, failed to divert the Mollys from the path of enfightenment, as the team cut swathes across the pitch, shadowing their younger counterparts, like, eh…….shadows. However this was no parking the team bus in the goal (although we did have the bicycle rack there), as (Jason) bourne out by the shock half-time score. Listening to our amnesiac gaffa might have you believing we were leading by 10 goals, but this result wasn’t grown from the fertile imagination of bull manure.
Our chances may have been fewer, but we were making the most of them. Firstly, Aneel snatched a great on-the-D short range poke, that had the Vigilantes bawling into their mushed up baby rusks about the unfairness of it all, as the ref slapped down their protestations of “inside the area”. Aneel would go on to score another, but I didn’t see it – I was too busy massaging my groinal attachment awake, having used it to block a shot – hardly the same as deactivating a laser beam with it, but sacrificial nonetheless. With Gareth rounding off the scoring with a typical right wing drill, the Mollys found themselves 3-2 up at half-time.
As those survivors of the last clash against the Vigies were at constant pains to point out, a similar scenario had manifested itself last time out, with the Mollys never being outclassed, and it was only the usual second half collapse through fatigue that saw them lose 4-11. This time, could the team hold it together? Oh shit, did the ‘LOST 5-10’ at the top of the report spoil the cliffhanging surprise?
You can only imagine the half-time team talk from the Vigilantes’ notepad-carrying coach – probably full of bullspit about “their keeper keeping them in it” (a complete disservice to the total defensive framework in front of Matt). And just to prove the point, in the second half, Matt let in a soft close range shot through his legs as he failed to sit down quick enough, and a long range punt that got slowed down twice by deflections off Leo and Aneel – how much more edge do you want taken off?
In the outfield, there were still mind-boggling attempts to fashion our own chances, Aneel superbly pulling off some link up play with Gareth to thread him a score, and Dean and Leo spectacularly failing to do similar, as the Mollys trailed 6-5, but far from out of the winning equation. Jon was running the central hub, throwing his weight around in smash n’ grabs, but into one particular challenge, he came out of it rupturing his knee again, lying on the ground, in-taking breath, while all those around him looked on with no concern whatsoever. Guess we were all waiting for the barman to finish serving that Magners, and come out with his in need of refill first aid box.
A sarky comment from a Vigilante saw Jon momentarily rise to his foot, as he hobbled toward said perpetrator with clear intent to butt heads, before thinking better of it and rolling away off the pitch in a surreal horizontal pirouette technique. One nail in the Molly coffin, but momentarily with still enough oxygen to potentially one-inch punch our way out of the box, the second nail followed soon after, as Leo pulled up with cramp in both legs simultaneously. With no opportunity to shake it off, the defence was effectively rendered immobile, as the Vigilantes finally created the space to bang shots at Matt, and – he let them in!
A final score defeat of 5 to 10 against a wanky team of arrogant, obsessive shits, who only seemed to lighten up after they had secured the victory, was hardly justice for a professional and inspired first 35 minutes - the positives were evident, but the loss of another squad member long term was a costly negative. You had to wonder if Jon had received better treatment for his knee from the Goals staff, beyond a ramshackle concoction of ice cubes wrapped in a carrier bag, strapped to his knee with sticky tape, and held together by a paperclip, whether we’d have had ice in our consolation Pepsi/s/es and the league tables wouldn’t have fallen off the noticeboard.
And so the League 1 season ended with another casualty of war, another defeat, and a final points tally of 10. It can be but hoped that from this rotting corpse of a season, that genetic material can be saved to create better results and a better season to come. Unlike creating Nuclear Man from a strand of The Man of Steel’s hair, this franchise should only get better.
Goal Scorers: Aneel 3, Gareth 2
Match ratings: Matt 8, Leo 8, Dean 8, Jon 8, Gareth 8, Aneel 8
Man of the Match: Aneel
*I’m keeping it low-brow. I haven’t seen The Godfather Trilogy.
It’s been a difficult, testing second season. A season derided from the start with an undeserved and unwelcome promotion into League 1. A season that started like Superman – The Movie, improved with added Zod, and ended with the bummest note of Richard Pryor stealing virtual cents, and a missile attack sequence powered by a Sega Megadrive*.
The squad took a real Barton of a beating. There was the permanent retirement of the Sheriff and the Turk; Dean “The Hatman” Hatton limited to late night cameos, like boobs on Bravo; and Steve missing the season’s second half through senile dementia. Don, Aneel, and Adam made significant contributions, with no one being a fringe player – only Gareth (and Matt) showed anything like consistent and consecutive appearances. It wasn’t all boo-hoo. Nobby made a solid man-of-the-match winning return to action, and Mark provided plenty of column inch ammunition as the latest recipient of the Cluff Golden Wank Rag Award.
With the team conceding 18 goals on three occasions, and only 2 real victories (and a draw) to show for their troubles, the thrill of next season against inferior League 2 opposition stirs in the loins.
Having previously upstaged Derren Brown’s goatee by predicting Nobby’s availability the previous week, Matt outdoes himself again this week, with the memory of a dead elephant and the deniability of Barrymore, by naming a known-to-be-injured Nobby in the squad. Another scoop from the 3am Girls.
So another six man line-up faced/off against an unbeaten, but not unbeatable, Vigilantes side. A six man line-up that did themselves the utmost credit, until two injuries cut the heel tendons from under them with five minutes to go.
Right from the get go, the Mollys were under pressure, but as is their want, the team play best against better skilled teams when under the cosh. With the opposition having the fat kid’s share of the possession cake, it was up to the Vigilantes to create the space, to create the shooting opportunities, and then for the Mollys to seize on any fuck-up, any lucky break, and to counter-attack with ruthless aggression.
Not quite man-marking, not quite zonal, this was still the most combative, disciplined, tactically sound display the Mollys have put on for some time. With Leo operating as sweeper in the final third of the pitch relentlessly getting blocks in on the opposition shooting, the attacking quartet of Jon, Dean, Aneel, and Gareth were having to work their proverbial nutsacks off, in not only going forward to attack, but having to weigh in with challenges in the middle third, and track-back down the wings.
This constant baby-sitting forced the Vigilantes to take long-range pot-shots, or tight angled whips across the D that Matt was making look better than actual, with his over-exuberant one-for-the-photo-album saving. Still Matt’s efficient keeping, and the team’s spoiler tactics were having the desired psychological effect on the opposition’s mistaken belief that their victory was as inevitable as death, taxes, and another series of My Family…..
Rudimentary whinging at the referee, mixed with incessant hack and slash as the opposition followed their coach’s tactics to attack, attack, attack, failed to divert the Mollys from the path of enfightenment, as the team cut swathes across the pitch, shadowing their younger counterparts, like, eh…….shadows. However this was no parking the team bus in the goal (although we did have the bicycle rack there), as (Jason) bourne out by the shock half-time score. Listening to our amnesiac gaffa might have you believing we were leading by 10 goals, but this result wasn’t grown from the fertile imagination of bull manure.
Our chances may have been fewer, but we were making the most of them. Firstly, Aneel snatched a great on-the-D short range poke, that had the Vigilantes bawling into their mushed up baby rusks about the unfairness of it all, as the ref slapped down their protestations of “inside the area”. Aneel would go on to score another, but I didn’t see it – I was too busy massaging my groinal attachment awake, having used it to block a shot – hardly the same as deactivating a laser beam with it, but sacrificial nonetheless. With Gareth rounding off the scoring with a typical right wing drill, the Mollys found themselves 3-2 up at half-time.
As those survivors of the last clash against the Vigies were at constant pains to point out, a similar scenario had manifested itself last time out, with the Mollys never being outclassed, and it was only the usual second half collapse through fatigue that saw them lose 4-11. This time, could the team hold it together? Oh shit, did the ‘LOST 5-10’ at the top of the report spoil the cliffhanging surprise?
You can only imagine the half-time team talk from the Vigilantes’ notepad-carrying coach – probably full of bullspit about “their keeper keeping them in it” (a complete disservice to the total defensive framework in front of Matt). And just to prove the point, in the second half, Matt let in a soft close range shot through his legs as he failed to sit down quick enough, and a long range punt that got slowed down twice by deflections off Leo and Aneel – how much more edge do you want taken off?
In the outfield, there were still mind-boggling attempts to fashion our own chances, Aneel superbly pulling off some link up play with Gareth to thread him a score, and Dean and Leo spectacularly failing to do similar, as the Mollys trailed 6-5, but far from out of the winning equation. Jon was running the central hub, throwing his weight around in smash n’ grabs, but into one particular challenge, he came out of it rupturing his knee again, lying on the ground, in-taking breath, while all those around him looked on with no concern whatsoever. Guess we were all waiting for the barman to finish serving that Magners, and come out with his in need of refill first aid box.
A sarky comment from a Vigilante saw Jon momentarily rise to his foot, as he hobbled toward said perpetrator with clear intent to butt heads, before thinking better of it and rolling away off the pitch in a surreal horizontal pirouette technique. One nail in the Molly coffin, but momentarily with still enough oxygen to potentially one-inch punch our way out of the box, the second nail followed soon after, as Leo pulled up with cramp in both legs simultaneously. With no opportunity to shake it off, the defence was effectively rendered immobile, as the Vigilantes finally created the space to bang shots at Matt, and – he let them in!
A final score defeat of 5 to 10 against a wanky team of arrogant, obsessive shits, who only seemed to lighten up after they had secured the victory, was hardly justice for a professional and inspired first 35 minutes - the positives were evident, but the loss of another squad member long term was a costly negative. You had to wonder if Jon had received better treatment for his knee from the Goals staff, beyond a ramshackle concoction of ice cubes wrapped in a carrier bag, strapped to his knee with sticky tape, and held together by a paperclip, whether we’d have had ice in our consolation Pepsi/s/es and the league tables wouldn’t have fallen off the noticeboard.
And so the League 1 season ended with another casualty of war, another defeat, and a final points tally of 10. It can be but hoped that from this rotting corpse of a season, that genetic material can be saved to create better results and a better season to come. Unlike creating Nuclear Man from a strand of The Man of Steel’s hair, this franchise should only get better.
Goal Scorers: Aneel 3, Gareth 2
Match ratings: Matt 8, Leo 8, Dean 8, Jon 8, Gareth 8, Aneel 8
Man of the Match: Aneel
*I’m keeping it low-brow. I haven’t seen The Godfather Trilogy.
Saturday, 4 August 2007
Match 13 - Season 2 (summer)
MATCH 13 vs. Jason’s Helmets 1/8/07 20:30
LOST 5-11
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 8.Jon 9.Gareth 14.Nobby
“Strong as I am, there’s something ‘bout this thing that scares me”
So I’m having technical problems with my broadband at the moment, which means I can’t check to see if loopylottolove.com has sent me another email about g_girl4400 wanting to meet me, in a dating agency I sure as hell don’t remember signing up for. I can’t check to see if there’s an increase of people watching the Molly Maguires dicking about through the medium of YouTube. I can’t be perturbed by leeching weirdos I thought I’d burnt off a long time ago, tracking me down via the voyeur’s wet dream Facebook.
When your arms and legs have effectively been cut off, and you’re rolling down a collapsed bridge strapped to an office chair, you learn to appreciate the communal spirit afforded by such gatherings as the Mollys versus whoever. Yeah, at least I’m getting some fresh air - I’ll die on impact, but what a thrill-rush getting there. You learn to appreciate the succinct leering at the touchline totty of other teams. You learn to appreciate the stolen moments of Nintendo geek love conversation. You learn to appreciate the unbridled ability to shout live at Matt’s shitty fumble-keeping instead of insipid virtual reality hugging and sending of pixellated gifts. Watching is no substitute for matching <yeah, I know, pretty weak>. Clicking is no substitute for kicking <much better>.
There was some suggestion pre-match of this being a return to the classic line-up of old, and that was even before Nathan’s name dropped off the starting line-up, with the same disbelief of my jaw dropping at the sight of Prime uppercutting through Bonecrusher’s face to pop his eyeball out. This was a Generation 1 line-up*, and sure, we could’ve done with another action figure to complement the Care Bears we had with limited poseableness in midfield, but ebay’s inaccessible offline too.
In much the same vein as the legendary Roystone Rangers in previous seasons, the Helmets are the most accurate indicator of our team’s worth. At the top of our game, we twist-jerk them and their ridiculous name into a ceiling high affirmation of our virility. At our worst, we play with Mark in goal. But at least, we had a team today. With last week’s late cancellation, due to only a trio of the squad available, £30 worth of the kitty was flushed away like a batch of Umbro white tops being relegated to ….umm, …dunno, haven’t seen one of them in years.
Gone are the hopes and dreams of SoccerSportsSoccer lackey Gareth, and his wish for a decent team kit. Gone are the hopes and dreams of curry monster Jon, and his wish for an evening to rival the Christmas Curry Past (how did the fuck we get at least ten Molly personnel in the same place at the same time?) With seasonal registration costing more over three months, than Television X over the same period, jokes about kitty and pussy are just too easy.
With the Mollys being spared the ignominy of (losing in) the orange bibs, they faced off against the team that had knuckle-sandwiched them 18-1 last time out. And whilst the return of Dean added a sophisticated quality to the hairstyles on display, without another dedicated frontman to slipstream with Gareth, or another dedicated defender to unshackle Leo, the team played like a classic Yes song being violated by a disco beat.
Whilst the Mollys could be proud of opening the scoring, the opposition’s reply was swift, and it became soon evident that our one-dimensional play was flatter than an OK! photospread of Kate Moss. Whilst the Helmets attacked in ruthless triumvirates, creating shooting angles that the gaffa’s Worzel Gummidge hands were struggling to contain, the Mollys’ tactic of giving it to Gareth, and hoping he could create chances, was as predictable as another shit game for Lampard.
Whilst 50-50 challenges were being won, the lack of forward movement or a controlled touch was hampering our attacking play. Jon’s box-to-box running wasn’t entirely successful this time out, having to actually bring the ball forward, rather than space running for the killer pass. Nobby continued to play his now patented Samson-lite ball-chasing game all over the pitch, and Dean struggled to get hold of the ball, let alone do anything damaging with it, which left Leo defending way too deep, as the opposition continually attacked without respite, returning the ball into our half with the inevitability of foot and mouth.
With Matt giving the team a dressing down at half-time with all the masculinity and point of reference of Gok Wan – criticising the team’s lack of sound (the quietest we’d been for some time) and communication – boy, Jon must’ve been tired, we barely did much better for the next twenty minutes.
Gareth scored a superb goal from a superber throw out clearance from Matt, and whilst this was generally indicative of Matt’s better than usual possession play, unable to keep the opposition busy at the other end, merely delayed further goals conceded. Even Don had decided that the time was now right to call it day and contribute as much to the team as Beckham does to his.
Jon was clearly getting his Aussie and English rules confused as he walloped two separate shots clear into the night sky, the ball silhouetted against the moon like a retarded Bat-signal. Their keeper was making the odd save or two, but our shooting was largely akin to a Harrier Jump jet equipped with lock-on missiles and gun, seemingly unable to hit a massive articulated lorry with a yippee-kay-yay mo-fo driving it.
The Helmets had crept to a minimum safe distance, long before we knew how to hit the button, and this classic line-up ultimately left a disappointed taste in the mouth as much as watching He-Man again, whilst sucking on a Freezepop. If it wasn’t for the fact that Goals is one of the few places that still sell Golden Wonder fucking Cheese and Onion crisps (the greatest crisps in the world), I’d doubt my own ability to deliver the defensive goods like I once did, clinging to those of past that still survive the present.
I went a bit off tangent there, but I always was good at maths (pun). Of course, I never took A-level psychology (I went to a real school, and had teachers who didn’t teach from a Letts guide), but you felt somewhere in the back of the team’s mind, the effort wasn’t at full capacity, the niggling thought of this being a relegation survivor decider perhaps holding back the passion, holding back Leo’s screeching abuse at Matt; Jon’s howling abuse at the referee; Don’s positional abuse at Nobby; Dean’s mild miffiness. With a defeat cementing our place in the bottom two, and the dreams of relegation to come tingling on the lobe, this match perhaps wasn’t the benchmark I had made it out to be.
Now that I’ve managed to post the last of this report, it seems my internet connection is getting better, so I could start ‘researching’ for that comedy TV programme I’m writing; I could check the fixture list for when Beattie’s gonna score the winner against his old club, having received delicious verbal abuse throughout the match; or I could go outside, kick a ball against the wall, whilst whistling the theme to Thundercats. It’s raining outside, but I like the rain.
Goal scorers: Gareth 4, Nobby 1
Match ratings: Matt 6, Leo 6, Dean 6, Jon 6, Gareth 7, Nobby 6
Man of the match: Gareth
*If you understand this reference, marry me.
LOST 5-11
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 8.Jon 9.Gareth 14.Nobby
“Strong as I am, there’s something ‘bout this thing that scares me”
So I’m having technical problems with my broadband at the moment, which means I can’t check to see if loopylottolove.com has sent me another email about g_girl4400 wanting to meet me, in a dating agency I sure as hell don’t remember signing up for. I can’t check to see if there’s an increase of people watching the Molly Maguires dicking about through the medium of YouTube. I can’t be perturbed by leeching weirdos I thought I’d burnt off a long time ago, tracking me down via the voyeur’s wet dream Facebook.
When your arms and legs have effectively been cut off, and you’re rolling down a collapsed bridge strapped to an office chair, you learn to appreciate the communal spirit afforded by such gatherings as the Mollys versus whoever. Yeah, at least I’m getting some fresh air - I’ll die on impact, but what a thrill-rush getting there. You learn to appreciate the succinct leering at the touchline totty of other teams. You learn to appreciate the stolen moments of Nintendo geek love conversation. You learn to appreciate the unbridled ability to shout live at Matt’s shitty fumble-keeping instead of insipid virtual reality hugging and sending of pixellated gifts. Watching is no substitute for matching <yeah, I know, pretty weak>. Clicking is no substitute for kicking <much better>.
There was some suggestion pre-match of this being a return to the classic line-up of old, and that was even before Nathan’s name dropped off the starting line-up, with the same disbelief of my jaw dropping at the sight of Prime uppercutting through Bonecrusher’s face to pop his eyeball out. This was a Generation 1 line-up*, and sure, we could’ve done with another action figure to complement the Care Bears we had with limited poseableness in midfield, but ebay’s inaccessible offline too.
In much the same vein as the legendary Roystone Rangers in previous seasons, the Helmets are the most accurate indicator of our team’s worth. At the top of our game, we twist-jerk them and their ridiculous name into a ceiling high affirmation of our virility. At our worst, we play with Mark in goal. But at least, we had a team today. With last week’s late cancellation, due to only a trio of the squad available, £30 worth of the kitty was flushed away like a batch of Umbro white tops being relegated to ….umm, …dunno, haven’t seen one of them in years.
Gone are the hopes and dreams of SoccerSportsSoccer lackey Gareth, and his wish for a decent team kit. Gone are the hopes and dreams of curry monster Jon, and his wish for an evening to rival the Christmas Curry Past (how did the fuck we get at least ten Molly personnel in the same place at the same time?) With seasonal registration costing more over three months, than Television X over the same period, jokes about kitty and pussy are just too easy.
With the Mollys being spared the ignominy of (losing in) the orange bibs, they faced off against the team that had knuckle-sandwiched them 18-1 last time out. And whilst the return of Dean added a sophisticated quality to the hairstyles on display, without another dedicated frontman to slipstream with Gareth, or another dedicated defender to unshackle Leo, the team played like a classic Yes song being violated by a disco beat.
Whilst the Mollys could be proud of opening the scoring, the opposition’s reply was swift, and it became soon evident that our one-dimensional play was flatter than an OK! photospread of Kate Moss. Whilst the Helmets attacked in ruthless triumvirates, creating shooting angles that the gaffa’s Worzel Gummidge hands were struggling to contain, the Mollys’ tactic of giving it to Gareth, and hoping he could create chances, was as predictable as another shit game for Lampard.
Whilst 50-50 challenges were being won, the lack of forward movement or a controlled touch was hampering our attacking play. Jon’s box-to-box running wasn’t entirely successful this time out, having to actually bring the ball forward, rather than space running for the killer pass. Nobby continued to play his now patented Samson-lite ball-chasing game all over the pitch, and Dean struggled to get hold of the ball, let alone do anything damaging with it, which left Leo defending way too deep, as the opposition continually attacked without respite, returning the ball into our half with the inevitability of foot and mouth.
With Matt giving the team a dressing down at half-time with all the masculinity and point of reference of Gok Wan – criticising the team’s lack of sound (the quietest we’d been for some time) and communication – boy, Jon must’ve been tired, we barely did much better for the next twenty minutes.
Gareth scored a superb goal from a superber throw out clearance from Matt, and whilst this was generally indicative of Matt’s better than usual possession play, unable to keep the opposition busy at the other end, merely delayed further goals conceded. Even Don had decided that the time was now right to call it day and contribute as much to the team as Beckham does to his.
Jon was clearly getting his Aussie and English rules confused as he walloped two separate shots clear into the night sky, the ball silhouetted against the moon like a retarded Bat-signal. Their keeper was making the odd save or two, but our shooting was largely akin to a Harrier Jump jet equipped with lock-on missiles and gun, seemingly unable to hit a massive articulated lorry with a yippee-kay-yay mo-fo driving it.
The Helmets had crept to a minimum safe distance, long before we knew how to hit the button, and this classic line-up ultimately left a disappointed taste in the mouth as much as watching He-Man again, whilst sucking on a Freezepop. If it wasn’t for the fact that Goals is one of the few places that still sell Golden Wonder fucking Cheese and Onion crisps (the greatest crisps in the world), I’d doubt my own ability to deliver the defensive goods like I once did, clinging to those of past that still survive the present.
I went a bit off tangent there, but I always was good at maths (pun). Of course, I never took A-level psychology (I went to a real school, and had teachers who didn’t teach from a Letts guide), but you felt somewhere in the back of the team’s mind, the effort wasn’t at full capacity, the niggling thought of this being a relegation survivor decider perhaps holding back the passion, holding back Leo’s screeching abuse at Matt; Jon’s howling abuse at the referee; Don’s positional abuse at Nobby; Dean’s mild miffiness. With a defeat cementing our place in the bottom two, and the dreams of relegation to come tingling on the lobe, this match perhaps wasn’t the benchmark I had made it out to be.
Now that I’ve managed to post the last of this report, it seems my internet connection is getting better, so I could start ‘researching’ for that comedy TV programme I’m writing; I could check the fixture list for when Beattie’s gonna score the winner against his old club, having received delicious verbal abuse throughout the match; or I could go outside, kick a ball against the wall, whilst whistling the theme to Thundercats. It’s raining outside, but I like the rain.
Goal scorers: Gareth 4, Nobby 1
Match ratings: Matt 6, Leo 6, Dean 6, Jon 6, Gareth 7, Nobby 6
Man of the match: Gareth
*If you understand this reference, marry me.
Tuesday, 31 July 2007
Wednesday, 18 July 2007
Match 11 - Season 2 (summer)
MATCH 11 vs. Hank & Clive 18/7/07 19:00
Won Again! 11-7
1.Matt (c) 3.Don 5.Leo 8.Jon 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam
Goal Scorers: Jon 6, Nathan 4, Gareth 1
Match Ratings: Matt7, Don7, Leo7, Jon9, Gareth7, Nathan8, Adam7
MOTM: Jon
Won Again! 11-7
1.Matt (c) 3.Don 5.Leo 8.Jon 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam
Goal Scorers: Jon 6, Nathan 4, Gareth 1
Match Ratings: Matt7, Don7, Leo7, Jon9, Gareth7, Nathan8, Adam7
MOTM: Jon
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
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