WICKED WHISPER
WHICH Molly Maguires' player missed last week's match as they were at the pictures, watching Bring it On 2 at Harbour Lights, by taking advantage of the 2 tickets for 1 deal?
Friday, 23 March 2007
The 3am Girls
WICKED WHISPER
WHICH Molly Maguires' player missed last week's match as they were at the pictures, watching Bring it On 2 at Harbour Lights, by taking advantage of the 2 tickets for 1 deal?
Wednesday, 21 March 2007
Match Eight
MATCH EIGHT vs. Don't Give A FC 21/3/07 20:30
Lose 3-11
1.Matt 4.Steve 5.Leo 6.Robbie 7.Dean 9.Gareth 14.Nathan
Lose 3-11
1.Matt 4.Steve 5.Leo 6.Robbie 7.Dean 9.Gareth 14.Nathan
“All ships of sense on hyper-ocean. All kites of chaos still in motion.”
“Hello, Lungboy here. I’m dictating this match report into my digital voice recorder, live on a cold Thursday evening. And right now, I’m reporting whilst standing in a queue outside Europe’s largest Virgin Megastore, here in Oxford Street, London.
“Sorry about the delay in posting this report, but the explanation is really simple. I wanted a PS3 at the midnight launch date, and like any geek worth his Star Trek insignia comms. badge, pre-ordering it from Amazon wasn’t gonna get me any tribal kudos points with the dorks and nerds.
“Nope. I have to be one of the first in the country to own the latest tech, with it’s death ray dvd capability, that will make porn-watching even more gyno. I was hoping to get my wispy moustached, spotty face in the gaming press, but here I am, freezing my nuts off for the next several hours, in a queue several hundred deep. I say queue, but perhaps there’s a specific word for queues of these kind of people. A queer. That sounds right. I’m standing in a queer of losers.
“Oh yes, the match. Right off the bat, I’m gonna have to say one thing, and it’s that we, as a team, really need a half-time turn around swap of ends. Not for all that guff about floodlights affecting vision, or constantly crashing into the static referee hogging one side of the pitch, or a variable distance to the subbing pitch line. Nope. We need a half-time end shift, because I can’t bloody remember anything otherwise. I can’t remember who scored what, and when; who pulled up more times than Paris Hilton’s knickers; whether we played with a shit aroma for a full forty minutes or just a fraction of that.
“I can’t remember turning points if we’re only moving in a straight line. Hey, no, what does it look like? I’m using a digital voice recorder. I’d call it a dictaphone, but you look like the type of person who might get off on that. I don’t give a shit. Wow, scary! I’m not leaving this queue getting threatened by some johnny foreign student who probably thinks Betty Blue is the height of erotica. Well yes the nudity is nice, but that’s not the point I’m making. Shit, man. I hope I get the last one in stock, and then ebay that shit right in your face.
“Tosser. Anyway, where was I? Conflict. That seems to be an unfortunate theme within the team at the moment. Conflict over tactics - the balance ‘tween ‘tack twixt defence, the best place to put Steve that doesn’t have a pine fragrance. Conflict over the cost of match fees – the balance of value for money against lining a kitty for a supposed new kit, and a bloody ball. And not wishing to give away my pre-cognitive skills too much, but future conflicts about whether the squad can or should, either function on match day with barely five fit players or fold by default. The Molly squad getting constantly crispy kung po battered with injuries.
“I’ll break it down into bite-size. On paper, the Molly team looked pretty damn good. The hardcore. As first choice as you can get, without dropping an erect penis into a barrel of boobs, and being told to go bobbing. With a two pronged attack who apparently knew how to score, and enough defenders to prevent Matt from ever having to fumble another goal ever again, this looked very promising. Yeah, well, so did Saint’s promotion campaign.
“The problem with these match reports has always been the internal struggle within myself to pass comment fair and piss rippage in balance. To maintain objective journalistic integrity whilst subjectively playing for the very team that gets pistol-whipped by my alter-ego on a regular basis. The yin and yang. The manic depressive and the depressed maniac. Peter and Spidey and Venom and Carnage. Judge, jury, executioner, and offender. And court sketch artist. More conflict. Oh, shut up. I know Venom and Carnage are symbiotic, but I’m not pitching this to you. Hell, half of these morons don’t even know who I’m talking about, let alone what.
“Ermm….the first half as I remember it was a suitably balanced struggle between good and evil, as the angels of Molly, fought the demons of DGAFC. Despite having the potential to whisper influence into the known referee, the puny meat-sack saw fit to call the game with a rudimentary fairness that got us the judgement we deserved. Tight as a Phil Collins’ drumskin, the teams’ beats rattled with a ragging rhythm, as they divvied up three goals each. The opposition played with a composed confidence, that would vibrate through into the second half. Always on our back-heels, their front hooves were treading through our labyrinth of bodies, backing away and retaining possession whenever a wall sprung up in front of them.
“Gareth and Nathan had hinted at the sweet music they might play together, sharing the goals with each other, like lovesick saliva. There was some semblance of order in defence, with Robbie and Leo overlapping each other, covering the runners, and Steve generally getting in the way. True to form of most of my match reports, I should make up some abstract bollocks about Dean’s contribution to the team in the engine room, but boy would my face be red in hindsight. Criticism of Matt can wait till the second half.
“Ha, only just noticed that. There’s a big billboard just over there on the corner of Tottenham Court Road. Unbelievably it’s got ex-Molly player, and pariah JC’s visage beaming down. Of course, when I say JC, I don’t mean Our Lord And Saviour, but someone a little bit more closer to the fiery underworld. (Just using the initials to protect the innocent - me). Please note, how I’ve refrained from blatantly stealing that classic Simpsons’ joke, although I thought about it. Anyway, no word of a lie, a well-known condom firm have used his ordinary man mug to target a hitherto untapped market – “Posh wanks for a lonely man. Use Durex Featherlite. And a numb hand”, the slogan reads.
“We brought about defeat upon ourselves in the second half. Whilst we never ever, to our credit, gave up the ghost, it was the equivalent of fighting with a quarter charged proton pack. An 8-0 second half boning was a reprehensible waste of our position and of our talents. Blame it on anything you want - excuses of fitness and injuries receiving more outings than Tom Cruise and Simon Cowell.
“We played so deep in the second half that even a salty sea dog like Uncle Steve was getting the bends, eventually collapsing in a heaped injury, that limited him to scuttling sideways. The team’s defensive stance invited the opposition onto us, presenting our warm genetalia to be mounted from behind.
“Our attackers barely deserved the name. Some narcissistic desire to beat their markers single-handedly, frequently left the outfield in debt. When we were able to toe-tag the ball from them, we were breaking into their lonely half of the pitch, with neither the speed nor support to counter-attack effectively.
“It was arguable that Dean’s injury was a critical juncture, forcing the team into squeezing play into the Mollys’ final third. Whether you accept the silky smooth passing skills of Dean actually exist, and I see no religion yet based on such mythology, the absence of his crucial fulcrum between the defence and attack drew the disparate entities to collide in an unwieldy paradox.
“Shots rained down on our keeper, like brimstone bereft of treacle. A mixture of man and zonal marking did nothing to break the enemy’s dominance in possession, and their attempts through players brought them reward. Matt was hitting the ground with all the speed and grace of a slow-mo Rocky film KO. He’d blame his inability to see through his own defenders, but really the secret of any keeper’s success is…………………… wait for it………………… anticipation.
“With Leo coming closest to a Molly response as he rattled the post with a knee-scrapping screamer, the team flopped and floundered on the shore, as its gills drew nothing but air. Chants of “you’re not fit to wear the shirt” would not have been unapt, as the final whistle blew an end to the gobsmacking annihilation.
“It’s still cold out here, hours to go. I’m desperate to break ranks and get a sodding Big Mac. I don’t have any clever way to end this report.
Goal Scorers: Nathan and Gareth – 3 between them
Match Ratings: Matt 5, Steve 5, Leo 6, Robbie 6, Dean 6, Gareth 5, Nathan 5
“Hello, Lungboy here. I’m dictating this match report into my digital voice recorder, live on a cold Thursday evening. And right now, I’m reporting whilst standing in a queue outside Europe’s largest Virgin Megastore, here in Oxford Street, London.
“Sorry about the delay in posting this report, but the explanation is really simple. I wanted a PS3 at the midnight launch date, and like any geek worth his Star Trek insignia comms. badge, pre-ordering it from Amazon wasn’t gonna get me any tribal kudos points with the dorks and nerds.
“Nope. I have to be one of the first in the country to own the latest tech, with it’s death ray dvd capability, that will make porn-watching even more gyno. I was hoping to get my wispy moustached, spotty face in the gaming press, but here I am, freezing my nuts off for the next several hours, in a queue several hundred deep. I say queue, but perhaps there’s a specific word for queues of these kind of people. A queer. That sounds right. I’m standing in a queer of losers.
“Oh yes, the match. Right off the bat, I’m gonna have to say one thing, and it’s that we, as a team, really need a half-time turn around swap of ends. Not for all that guff about floodlights affecting vision, or constantly crashing into the static referee hogging one side of the pitch, or a variable distance to the subbing pitch line. Nope. We need a half-time end shift, because I can’t bloody remember anything otherwise. I can’t remember who scored what, and when; who pulled up more times than Paris Hilton’s knickers; whether we played with a shit aroma for a full forty minutes or just a fraction of that.
“I can’t remember turning points if we’re only moving in a straight line. Hey, no, what does it look like? I’m using a digital voice recorder. I’d call it a dictaphone, but you look like the type of person who might get off on that. I don’t give a shit. Wow, scary! I’m not leaving this queue getting threatened by some johnny foreign student who probably thinks Betty Blue is the height of erotica. Well yes the nudity is nice, but that’s not the point I’m making. Shit, man. I hope I get the last one in stock, and then ebay that shit right in your face.
“Tosser. Anyway, where was I? Conflict. That seems to be an unfortunate theme within the team at the moment. Conflict over tactics - the balance ‘tween ‘tack twixt defence, the best place to put Steve that doesn’t have a pine fragrance. Conflict over the cost of match fees – the balance of value for money against lining a kitty for a supposed new kit, and a bloody ball. And not wishing to give away my pre-cognitive skills too much, but future conflicts about whether the squad can or should, either function on match day with barely five fit players or fold by default. The Molly squad getting constantly crispy kung po battered with injuries.
“I’ll break it down into bite-size. On paper, the Molly team looked pretty damn good. The hardcore. As first choice as you can get, without dropping an erect penis into a barrel of boobs, and being told to go bobbing. With a two pronged attack who apparently knew how to score, and enough defenders to prevent Matt from ever having to fumble another goal ever again, this looked very promising. Yeah, well, so did Saint’s promotion campaign.
“The problem with these match reports has always been the internal struggle within myself to pass comment fair and piss rippage in balance. To maintain objective journalistic integrity whilst subjectively playing for the very team that gets pistol-whipped by my alter-ego on a regular basis. The yin and yang. The manic depressive and the depressed maniac. Peter and Spidey and Venom and Carnage. Judge, jury, executioner, and offender. And court sketch artist. More conflict. Oh, shut up. I know Venom and Carnage are symbiotic, but I’m not pitching this to you. Hell, half of these morons don’t even know who I’m talking about, let alone what.
“Ermm….the first half as I remember it was a suitably balanced struggle between good and evil, as the angels of Molly, fought the demons of DGAFC. Despite having the potential to whisper influence into the known referee, the puny meat-sack saw fit to call the game with a rudimentary fairness that got us the judgement we deserved. Tight as a Phil Collins’ drumskin, the teams’ beats rattled with a ragging rhythm, as they divvied up three goals each. The opposition played with a composed confidence, that would vibrate through into the second half. Always on our back-heels, their front hooves were treading through our labyrinth of bodies, backing away and retaining possession whenever a wall sprung up in front of them.
“Gareth and Nathan had hinted at the sweet music they might play together, sharing the goals with each other, like lovesick saliva. There was some semblance of order in defence, with Robbie and Leo overlapping each other, covering the runners, and Steve generally getting in the way. True to form of most of my match reports, I should make up some abstract bollocks about Dean’s contribution to the team in the engine room, but boy would my face be red in hindsight. Criticism of Matt can wait till the second half.
“Ha, only just noticed that. There’s a big billboard just over there on the corner of Tottenham Court Road. Unbelievably it’s got ex-Molly player, and pariah JC’s visage beaming down. Of course, when I say JC, I don’t mean Our Lord And Saviour, but someone a little bit more closer to the fiery underworld. (Just using the initials to protect the innocent - me). Please note, how I’ve refrained from blatantly stealing that classic Simpsons’ joke, although I thought about it. Anyway, no word of a lie, a well-known condom firm have used his ordinary man mug to target a hitherto untapped market – “Posh wanks for a lonely man. Use Durex Featherlite. And a numb hand”, the slogan reads.
“We brought about defeat upon ourselves in the second half. Whilst we never ever, to our credit, gave up the ghost, it was the equivalent of fighting with a quarter charged proton pack. An 8-0 second half boning was a reprehensible waste of our position and of our talents. Blame it on anything you want - excuses of fitness and injuries receiving more outings than Tom Cruise and Simon Cowell.
“We played so deep in the second half that even a salty sea dog like Uncle Steve was getting the bends, eventually collapsing in a heaped injury, that limited him to scuttling sideways. The team’s defensive stance invited the opposition onto us, presenting our warm genetalia to be mounted from behind.
“Our attackers barely deserved the name. Some narcissistic desire to beat their markers single-handedly, frequently left the outfield in debt. When we were able to toe-tag the ball from them, we were breaking into their lonely half of the pitch, with neither the speed nor support to counter-attack effectively.
“It was arguable that Dean’s injury was a critical juncture, forcing the team into squeezing play into the Mollys’ final third. Whether you accept the silky smooth passing skills of Dean actually exist, and I see no religion yet based on such mythology, the absence of his crucial fulcrum between the defence and attack drew the disparate entities to collide in an unwieldy paradox.
“Shots rained down on our keeper, like brimstone bereft of treacle. A mixture of man and zonal marking did nothing to break the enemy’s dominance in possession, and their attempts through players brought them reward. Matt was hitting the ground with all the speed and grace of a slow-mo Rocky film KO. He’d blame his inability to see through his own defenders, but really the secret of any keeper’s success is…………………… wait for it………………… anticipation.
“With Leo coming closest to a Molly response as he rattled the post with a knee-scrapping screamer, the team flopped and floundered on the shore, as its gills drew nothing but air. Chants of “you’re not fit to wear the shirt” would not have been unapt, as the final whistle blew an end to the gobsmacking annihilation.
“It’s still cold out here, hours to go. I’m desperate to break ranks and get a sodding Big Mac. I don’t have any clever way to end this report.
Goal Scorers: Nathan and Gareth – 3 between them
Match Ratings: Matt 5, Steve 5, Leo 6, Robbie 6, Dean 6, Gareth 5, Nathan 5
Man of the Match: Leo
Monday, 19 March 2007
The 3am Girls
Thursday, 15 March 2007
Match Seven
MATCH SEVEN vs. The Mighty Ducks 14/3/07 19:45
Lose 6-10
5.Leo (c) 4.Steve 7.Dean 8.Jon 9.Gareth 10.Aneel 11.Adam
“It seems true love is so rare. Seems all I’ve known is deceit. Your laughter fills the air. Once more I’m sensing defeat”
Local rag devotes whole page of tributes to young man killed in car crash into tree. Scan article for C.O.D.; tox report. None mentioned. Inquest pending. How convenient. Woman in adult education class rallies against the fucking Polish, cackers, Indians - back to their own country she snorts. I challenge her not. Can’t move her fat and ugly, out of her unsellable 3 bedroom, six kids, Millbrook crib. She’s already punished. Getting emotionally played again. Self-esteem and hope, scratch scatter like a polygraph. Bullshit playground politics to be dealt with. Lenny Henry jokes about Vanessa Feltz’s weight, impersonates Ant & Dec, in the name of charity. Whatever smile was left on my face tells me to go fuck myself, and has an affair with my best friend.
It was a bad week.
In the (apt) wake of this defeat, this temporary gaffer is not one to shirk responsibility, happy to hold his hands up, and point the blame to someone else. Or maybe not. This was a tactical dog mess, an unravelled canine turd. Pressing the self-destruct button on an over-reaction, and limiting options to ‘glass jar or plastic bag’.
The Molly personnel tonight exuded the spirit of Arsenal’s league cup squad, and there was enough sugar plum to ferry the team through long uncharted waters – the first time in a luvulongtime absence of Matt, glossed over by two exceptionless stand-ins keepers. So while Matt was filling his boots, masticating in his week away from work, Leo and Aneel would fill his gloves. Adam increased the totty count with a Phoenix-like return, and Jon once again chanced his arm with his knee. The temporary gaffer was happily illusionned that the pledge and the turn, would produce the magic, no matter the twists.
No longer able to scout our opposition prior to meeting, and with match points being traded like STDs at an American frat boy college party dot com, every opposition this season has been a unique surprise. Dealing with their system and shape on the night requires the same tactical thinking and tinkering that has served Steve McClaren so very well.
A game of two halves ultimately produced the same score line and highlighted the same deficiencies in each. Leo took sticks for the first half, and immediately let in the first after barely a couple of minutes, cruelly exposed from the angle. This was going to be the pervading flavour of the goals conceded – all struck from close range, with nary a defender in view. The opposition rarely wasted opportunities, by shooting long, or through the crowds of one defender. They built up quick yet patient attacks, only shooting when lock-on was beeping.
With no-one taking full charge of defence, and a happy-go-lucky merry go-round movement of Molly personnel, everyone seemed to be everywhere when we had the ball, and nowhere and anywhere else when not in possession. That being said, notable crunching tackles at the 12th hour, from side-on behind at least kept the team in the hunt.
Leo was doing his best to stop the close range efforts, spreading prone on the ground to block the low drives, and saving a hat-trick with his left foot. Jon was finally proving his worth as the return of The Self-Proclaimed, punching balls around the pitch, with the impact of a Rohypnol spike, smacking in two bitching goals. Adam, Steve and Dean wandered around Nobbyland like sun-sapped tourists, and Aneel was using his dribbling skills to aid Gareth in attack, whilst diverting attention away from his shorts over trousers faux pas.
The way the opposition played could not be countered by our ropey “that’s your man!” philosophy. Oh, for the days of barking-mad Dave Wills. We either had to play three in defence behind the ball, which is as alien to The Molly Maguires, as Leo is to a social life, or else we had to man-mark in order to contain the runners, and delegate some gawd damn blame and responsibility.
The first half finished with the team 3-5 down, Leo weakly letting a deceptive prod sneak into his near post as the last meaningful action. And from there, things would get worse.
Aneel took over in goal for the second half, in an abortive attempt to put Leo’s presence to better use in defence, but just as God created the dinosaurs in his own image, so the evolution of the side might have developed brain, but lost bite.
It wasn’t all misery, and cocked gun in mouth, with the Mollys starting sharpest, a premature peak, as Steve bagged two early to complete his hat-trick, including wrestling the penalty- taking duties from designated Dean, to draw us level. Temporary respite unfortunately, as the cards fell foul, and the team drew dead for the remaining quarter hour.
Lopsided like an absent-minded Heather Mills, the left side of the team was conspicuous by its absence, and the team shape bore a passing resemblance to a leper in a hot bath (joke circa 1985). Had Pro-Zone been utilised, the sight of Gareth’s pixellated vapour trail scrawling around the back side of our end of the pitch, having to defend against the runner was not an encouraging use of our most skilful player, especially when he got cornered into dinking an own goal past a bemused Aneel. No word on whether Don’s paying for his son’s trip to a real pro-zone.
With Steve’s head full of goalscoring glory, Leo drowning in quicksand, Dean and Adam largely anonymous, and Jon again keeling under his own bodyweight, no one escaped from this match with much credit. The opposition played the ball through the centre to a hold-up man, his back to goal, who fed the unopposed channel runners for uninhibited cracks at our keeper.
It’s the nature of the beast that this team concedes a regulation handful or two of goals every game, but as top scorers in this league (even after this game), it was disappointing and a little perverse, that Gareth got outgunned by two others, and was indicative of our lack of strategy - the pro-activeness of Aneel’s attacking, not compensated for a second, by Leo’s defensive reactiveness.
The second half finished 3-5 also. A total defeat of 6-10, and thoroughly deserved, with a lack of control, and organisation being callously exposed. Make no mistake, The Mighty Ducks are beatable, but it will take this trial run to get things right.
So a bad week hardly peaked or troughed with this middle time result, just a continual flatline, that mixedly metaphorically brought the team back down to earth. Looking back perhaps, it wasn’t as bad as I originally made out. West Ham lucked out with the greatest goal ever scored to ensure their fight for relegation will go on; the Mollys remained in third place in the table; I’m still breathing, living to die another day; and the car crash, was actually into a lamp post. So no tree had to needlessly die in a drunken mess.
Goal Scorers: Jon 2, Steve 3, Gareth 1
Match Ratings: Leo 6, Steve 7, Dean 6, Jon 7, Gareth 6, Aneel 6, Adam 6
Man of the Match: Steve
Lose 6-10
5.Leo (c) 4.Steve 7.Dean 8.Jon 9.Gareth 10.Aneel 11.Adam
“It seems true love is so rare. Seems all I’ve known is deceit. Your laughter fills the air. Once more I’m sensing defeat”
Local rag devotes whole page of tributes to young man killed in car crash into tree. Scan article for C.O.D.; tox report. None mentioned. Inquest pending. How convenient. Woman in adult education class rallies against the fucking Polish, cackers, Indians - back to their own country she snorts. I challenge her not. Can’t move her fat and ugly, out of her unsellable 3 bedroom, six kids, Millbrook crib. She’s already punished. Getting emotionally played again. Self-esteem and hope, scratch scatter like a polygraph. Bullshit playground politics to be dealt with. Lenny Henry jokes about Vanessa Feltz’s weight, impersonates Ant & Dec, in the name of charity. Whatever smile was left on my face tells me to go fuck myself, and has an affair with my best friend.
It was a bad week.
In the (apt) wake of this defeat, this temporary gaffer is not one to shirk responsibility, happy to hold his hands up, and point the blame to someone else. Or maybe not. This was a tactical dog mess, an unravelled canine turd. Pressing the self-destruct button on an over-reaction, and limiting options to ‘glass jar or plastic bag’.
The Molly personnel tonight exuded the spirit of Arsenal’s league cup squad, and there was enough sugar plum to ferry the team through long uncharted waters – the first time in a luvulongtime absence of Matt, glossed over by two exceptionless stand-ins keepers. So while Matt was filling his boots, masticating in his week away from work, Leo and Aneel would fill his gloves. Adam increased the totty count with a Phoenix-like return, and Jon once again chanced his arm with his knee. The temporary gaffer was happily illusionned that the pledge and the turn, would produce the magic, no matter the twists.
No longer able to scout our opposition prior to meeting, and with match points being traded like STDs at an American frat boy college party dot com, every opposition this season has been a unique surprise. Dealing with their system and shape on the night requires the same tactical thinking and tinkering that has served Steve McClaren so very well.
A game of two halves ultimately produced the same score line and highlighted the same deficiencies in each. Leo took sticks for the first half, and immediately let in the first after barely a couple of minutes, cruelly exposed from the angle. This was going to be the pervading flavour of the goals conceded – all struck from close range, with nary a defender in view. The opposition rarely wasted opportunities, by shooting long, or through the crowds of one defender. They built up quick yet patient attacks, only shooting when lock-on was beeping.
With no-one taking full charge of defence, and a happy-go-lucky merry go-round movement of Molly personnel, everyone seemed to be everywhere when we had the ball, and nowhere and anywhere else when not in possession. That being said, notable crunching tackles at the 12th hour, from side-on behind at least kept the team in the hunt.
Leo was doing his best to stop the close range efforts, spreading prone on the ground to block the low drives, and saving a hat-trick with his left foot. Jon was finally proving his worth as the return of The Self-Proclaimed, punching balls around the pitch, with the impact of a Rohypnol spike, smacking in two bitching goals. Adam, Steve and Dean wandered around Nobbyland like sun-sapped tourists, and Aneel was using his dribbling skills to aid Gareth in attack, whilst diverting attention away from his shorts over trousers faux pas.
The way the opposition played could not be countered by our ropey “that’s your man!” philosophy. Oh, for the days of barking-mad Dave Wills. We either had to play three in defence behind the ball, which is as alien to The Molly Maguires, as Leo is to a social life, or else we had to man-mark in order to contain the runners, and delegate some gawd damn blame and responsibility.
The first half finished with the team 3-5 down, Leo weakly letting a deceptive prod sneak into his near post as the last meaningful action. And from there, things would get worse.
Aneel took over in goal for the second half, in an abortive attempt to put Leo’s presence to better use in defence, but just as God created the dinosaurs in his own image, so the evolution of the side might have developed brain, but lost bite.
It wasn’t all misery, and cocked gun in mouth, with the Mollys starting sharpest, a premature peak, as Steve bagged two early to complete his hat-trick, including wrestling the penalty- taking duties from designated Dean, to draw us level. Temporary respite unfortunately, as the cards fell foul, and the team drew dead for the remaining quarter hour.
Lopsided like an absent-minded Heather Mills, the left side of the team was conspicuous by its absence, and the team shape bore a passing resemblance to a leper in a hot bath (joke circa 1985). Had Pro-Zone been utilised, the sight of Gareth’s pixellated vapour trail scrawling around the back side of our end of the pitch, having to defend against the runner was not an encouraging use of our most skilful player, especially when he got cornered into dinking an own goal past a bemused Aneel. No word on whether Don’s paying for his son’s trip to a real pro-zone.
With Steve’s head full of goalscoring glory, Leo drowning in quicksand, Dean and Adam largely anonymous, and Jon again keeling under his own bodyweight, no one escaped from this match with much credit. The opposition played the ball through the centre to a hold-up man, his back to goal, who fed the unopposed channel runners for uninhibited cracks at our keeper.
It’s the nature of the beast that this team concedes a regulation handful or two of goals every game, but as top scorers in this league (even after this game), it was disappointing and a little perverse, that Gareth got outgunned by two others, and was indicative of our lack of strategy - the pro-activeness of Aneel’s attacking, not compensated for a second, by Leo’s defensive reactiveness.
The second half finished 3-5 also. A total defeat of 6-10, and thoroughly deserved, with a lack of control, and organisation being callously exposed. Make no mistake, The Mighty Ducks are beatable, but it will take this trial run to get things right.
So a bad week hardly peaked or troughed with this middle time result, just a continual flatline, that mixedly metaphorically brought the team back down to earth. Looking back perhaps, it wasn’t as bad as I originally made out. West Ham lucked out with the greatest goal ever scored to ensure their fight for relegation will go on; the Mollys remained in third place in the table; I’m still breathing, living to die another day; and the car crash, was actually into a lamp post. So no tree had to needlessly die in a drunken mess.
Goal Scorers: Jon 2, Steve 3, Gareth 1
Match Ratings: Leo 6, Steve 7, Dean 6, Jon 7, Gareth 6, Aneel 6, Adam 6
Man of the Match: Steve
Wednesday, 14 March 2007
Half Season Stats
Statistics are only correct as of information provided (I haven't got full goalscorer info for the game against Jason's Helmets, except that according to Don, Gareth scored 7). Let me know if any amendments are required.
TEAM
31/1 LOST 4-8 vs Don't Give A FC (red)
7/2 LOST 7-12 vs Almost England
14/2 WON 10-7 vs Jason's Helmets
21/2 WON 13-11 vs Whitehouse FC
28/2 WON 16-5 vs Arselona (red)
7/3 DREW 9-9 vs The Offsiders (red/white stripes)
14/3 LOST 6-10 vs The Mighty Ducks (white)
PLAYERS
Squad No, Name, Apps, Gls, Av. Rating, MOTM
1. Matt 6, 0, 7.0, -
4. Steve 7, 5, 7.1, 1
5. Leo 4, 5, 7.3, -
6. Robbie 4, 0, 7.0, -
7. Dean 6, 1, 7.3, -
8. Jon 5, 3, 6.8, 1
9. Gareth 7, 32, 7.4, 2
10. Aneel 2, 0, 7.0, -
11. Adam 3, 1, 6.7, -
12. Martin 2, 2, 6.0, -
13. Dean (mk. II) 1, 0, 7.0, -
14. Nathan 2, 11, 8.0, 1
Thursday, 8 March 2007
The Most Inspirational Half Time Team Talk......Ever
The "stuff of legends" is a cliche all too readily bandied about, but sometimes such hyperbole is justified. How else to explain the second half fight-back by The Molly Maguires on that glorious night of 7th March 2007. Here's the transcript. The words speak for themselves, rendering any commentary by myself academic. The audio is also available. I had to cut technical corners, so the quality's shit, but you get the jist. For those who were there, re-live the magic. For those who were not, be inspired.
Wednesday, 7 March 2007
Match Six
MATCH SIX vs. The Offsiders 7/3/07 19:00
Draw 9-9
1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 6.Robbie 7.Dean 9.Gareth
“Tonight, make me unstoppable. And I will charm, I will slice, I will dazzle. Outshine them all.”
A few weeks back, I was sat in Heathrow Airport departure lounge passing the time, like I assume every bloke does. By starring at womens’ breasts. Or perhaps more specifically, starring into space, into which those breasts would then move. I’ve never quite understood the “stop starring at my breasts” refrain. I’m not – I’m starring at the lumps in your clothing, created by your breasts. Hell, if you removed your breasts from the equation, and just left the lumps, I’d probably still stare at those.
Moving forward in time to this evening, and it was an absolute classic team line-up that would poke its nipples through the footballing blouse. The kind of line-up that had survived past decimation to protect Molly’s honour right up to her last breath. Gareth again would have to shoulder the responsibility of being the most skilled and score worthy, supported by the gang bang rotation of the men behind him. Robbie played with a cracked rib; Steve, with a cracked smile; Leo, with a cracking arse; and Matt, with an arse crack.
It was clear right from the start of the first half, of the huge gap in skill between the two teams, a gap as wide as Heaven, and as long as a piece of string. The Saint-striped Offsiders played with that irritating possession dribbling - running back and forth, side to side, with the ball, forcing the Mollys to constantly chase. Flow of play was completely dominated by the opposition, too tactical to man-mark, too quick to follow back. It was like watching a DVD at 16x the speed - just glimpses enough not to miss the important nude scenes, but not enough to keep up with the plot. So while there were a few hand down trouser moments, namely two exquisite goals from Gareth, including a swiss-accurate stroke straight from kick-off, there was also much arse-shuffling to endure.
As Robbie would later testify, Matt’s first half foreplay continues to be outsexed by his second half performance. Suitably warmed up, dripping like pig fat, Matt can turn in displays of goalkeeping that fetish sports lovers would swap their chubby chasing videos to watch. But without at least twenty minutes of game time under his heavily notched belt, Matt reacts to shots like an audience reacts to Lenny Henry stand-up. Despite the heavy possession time of the opposition, and Matt sliding over some shots, like an articulated lorry off a bridge, it was almost an insult to the Offsiders that they were only 5-2 up at half time.
We’d yet to get to grips with the scoring mechanisms - shots were either flung high and wide, sitters missed, or speculative efforts easily blocked by the first defender let alone the last. We couldn’t isolate our front man, or put enough pressure on their last defender, to keep the ball in their half for long. It all seemed pretty desperate by the time the half time whistle blew.
The half time team talk, coincidently recorded for posterity, mixed in the usual clichés and catchphrases: from ‘serious’ tactical gee-ups to attack and defend, through motivational affirmations of team prettiness (surely some mistake), to “just enjoy yourself” loser talk. Easier to swallow than a kangaroo’s cock, directly or otherwise, the pow-wow had a galvanising medicinal effect.
Either that, or the opposition were about to get struck down by an unseen supernatural assassin, popping their brains into mush, leaving bodies running on behaviour and not thought. Something changed in the second half, because the siege the Mollys had endured was about to get driven back into the sea, as the team fashioned a Spartan fight back, with a quickening that rode the luck of lightning.
We frustrated the Offsiders’ attempts to play free-flowing football, Steve and Leo always playing the ball back into Matt’s area, without a second thought at mounting attacks from our own end. Matt, in turn, was saving shots like Mr Fantastic, stretching sinew to divert whipping ankle-grinders, and used his frame to block an almost inevitable point blank score, when left rare exposed.
The opposition were tiring from running rings round us, and the Mollys had lost the fear of losing, showing an almost dirty kind of creative, expansive football love. Leo and Dean attempted one-two, touch and go football up front without success. Matt threw the ball to the opposition a lot. Steve tackled like he had a concrete block attached to his leg, and had the audacity to move beyond the half-way line into attack, much to the chagrin of Don, who’d eventually joined the touchline. Matt threw the ball to the opposition some more. Robbie inched forward seeking his first of the season, and was attempting some neat cross-field passing, as the team sought to give the enemy something to worry about. Matt threw the ball to the opposition again, for them to return it to him, but without his ‘accuracy’ - they put it past him.
However, now wise to the oppo’s inability to take just one touch on the ball and play it away, the Mollys mirrored their tactics. Getting closer to the man on the ball, and swarming over them like on-heat flies over pheromoned shit, the Mollys were now starting to turn the ball over. Unlike previous panic shooting, or passes to the non-existent sixth man in the corner, they played with the extra yard afforded by the Offsiders’ standing off. And the goals rewardingly followed.
Dean manipulated his body position on the D’s edge to take down and control a rebound off the back wall, for an expert smash into the net. Gareth continued to fight through the last defender, taking his solo opportunities with aplombing flicks and inside of the foot angled shooting. And Steve, never scoring the simple tap-ins, chugged his way through at least two markers, before putting his foot through a ball that nestled into the bottom left corner.
The last few minutes remain a blur, the chronology of events whacked out of focus, but what was certain - Lady Luck was rubbing her lady lumps right in our faces. Certain was, we were 9-6 down, with three and a half minutes to go, as the ref rung the gallows bell. Certain was, an outside ball bounced onto our pitch, the opposition playing on with their attack, that broke down with pace. Certain was, Leo took advantage of their keeper and defender’s nonchalant, almost disrespectful, ‘playing’ with that ball, to ram the match ball straight central into the net to pull the first back. Certain was, the ref let it ride, and there was little protest (ho-ho, oh for hindsight).
Gareth remained potent to the final money shot, hassling a last defender enough that he toe-poked it past his own keeper. Worthy effort enough to be claimed his own, Gareth would go on to seal the remarkable comeback, latching on to a speedball whipped through from Matt out on the left, as he drove it with his outside right into the net corner beyond. But the ref was a mere tease, calling the action back, as a result of some bullshit time-wasting timeout call from the enemy for “sub”, that left the Mollys still limp, down by one, Leo screaming for the ref to add on the time.
In the alternate Mollyverse, should we have been ahead by one, playing into the opposition’s corner as far away from our own goal, would be as necessary as breathing. But for the Offsiders, such tactical deliberations were absent, as they continued to press against us, looking to pinch that last inch of shit off, twisting the knife one final time in the dying minute.
Such mentality would be their undoing, as Leo instinctively gripped and ripped a three-point clutch shot from the half way line, delivering a final jab in the Offsiders’ ear, that stayed low and fast as the keeper let it fumble through him, at a distance, that Leo couldn’t even see to. Punch. That. Shit.
As the final whistle followed seconds after the kick-off whistle, the Mollys could do little but laugh and grin at this gobsmacking final result, much like I did after Spurs violated West Ham for what will no doubt be the last time in a long time. Part fortuitous, part grafted, all deserved, the second half turnabout really was the stuff of legends. But life carries on, a new match appears in the distance, and the team return to their Clark Kent alter-egos. Dean moving work office, Robbie bulking up for sympathy pregnancy, and Matt deciding which of his thousand pornos are couple-friendly enough to put on open display, when he and his missus have dinner guests.
Yet what you see, is ultimately what you get from this team of heroes, much unlike those humps, those bumps, those lovely lady lumps.
Goals Scorers: Gareth 5, Dean 1, Steve 1, Leo 2
Match Ratings: Matt 8, Steve 8, Leo 8, Robbie 8, Dean 8, Gareth 9,
Man of the Match: Gareth
Draw 9-9
1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 6.Robbie 7.Dean 9.Gareth
“Tonight, make me unstoppable. And I will charm, I will slice, I will dazzle. Outshine them all.”
A few weeks back, I was sat in Heathrow Airport departure lounge passing the time, like I assume every bloke does. By starring at womens’ breasts. Or perhaps more specifically, starring into space, into which those breasts would then move. I’ve never quite understood the “stop starring at my breasts” refrain. I’m not – I’m starring at the lumps in your clothing, created by your breasts. Hell, if you removed your breasts from the equation, and just left the lumps, I’d probably still stare at those.
Moving forward in time to this evening, and it was an absolute classic team line-up that would poke its nipples through the footballing blouse. The kind of line-up that had survived past decimation to protect Molly’s honour right up to her last breath. Gareth again would have to shoulder the responsibility of being the most skilled and score worthy, supported by the gang bang rotation of the men behind him. Robbie played with a cracked rib; Steve, with a cracked smile; Leo, with a cracking arse; and Matt, with an arse crack.
It was clear right from the start of the first half, of the huge gap in skill between the two teams, a gap as wide as Heaven, and as long as a piece of string. The Saint-striped Offsiders played with that irritating possession dribbling - running back and forth, side to side, with the ball, forcing the Mollys to constantly chase. Flow of play was completely dominated by the opposition, too tactical to man-mark, too quick to follow back. It was like watching a DVD at 16x the speed - just glimpses enough not to miss the important nude scenes, but not enough to keep up with the plot. So while there were a few hand down trouser moments, namely two exquisite goals from Gareth, including a swiss-accurate stroke straight from kick-off, there was also much arse-shuffling to endure.
As Robbie would later testify, Matt’s first half foreplay continues to be outsexed by his second half performance. Suitably warmed up, dripping like pig fat, Matt can turn in displays of goalkeeping that fetish sports lovers would swap their chubby chasing videos to watch. But without at least twenty minutes of game time under his heavily notched belt, Matt reacts to shots like an audience reacts to Lenny Henry stand-up. Despite the heavy possession time of the opposition, and Matt sliding over some shots, like an articulated lorry off a bridge, it was almost an insult to the Offsiders that they were only 5-2 up at half time.
We’d yet to get to grips with the scoring mechanisms - shots were either flung high and wide, sitters missed, or speculative efforts easily blocked by the first defender let alone the last. We couldn’t isolate our front man, or put enough pressure on their last defender, to keep the ball in their half for long. It all seemed pretty desperate by the time the half time whistle blew.
The half time team talk, coincidently recorded for posterity, mixed in the usual clichés and catchphrases: from ‘serious’ tactical gee-ups to attack and defend, through motivational affirmations of team prettiness (surely some mistake), to “just enjoy yourself” loser talk. Easier to swallow than a kangaroo’s cock, directly or otherwise, the pow-wow had a galvanising medicinal effect.
Either that, or the opposition were about to get struck down by an unseen supernatural assassin, popping their brains into mush, leaving bodies running on behaviour and not thought. Something changed in the second half, because the siege the Mollys had endured was about to get driven back into the sea, as the team fashioned a Spartan fight back, with a quickening that rode the luck of lightning.
We frustrated the Offsiders’ attempts to play free-flowing football, Steve and Leo always playing the ball back into Matt’s area, without a second thought at mounting attacks from our own end. Matt, in turn, was saving shots like Mr Fantastic, stretching sinew to divert whipping ankle-grinders, and used his frame to block an almost inevitable point blank score, when left rare exposed.
The opposition were tiring from running rings round us, and the Mollys had lost the fear of losing, showing an almost dirty kind of creative, expansive football love. Leo and Dean attempted one-two, touch and go football up front without success. Matt threw the ball to the opposition a lot. Steve tackled like he had a concrete block attached to his leg, and had the audacity to move beyond the half-way line into attack, much to the chagrin of Don, who’d eventually joined the touchline. Matt threw the ball to the opposition some more. Robbie inched forward seeking his first of the season, and was attempting some neat cross-field passing, as the team sought to give the enemy something to worry about. Matt threw the ball to the opposition again, for them to return it to him, but without his ‘accuracy’ - they put it past him.
However, now wise to the oppo’s inability to take just one touch on the ball and play it away, the Mollys mirrored their tactics. Getting closer to the man on the ball, and swarming over them like on-heat flies over pheromoned shit, the Mollys were now starting to turn the ball over. Unlike previous panic shooting, or passes to the non-existent sixth man in the corner, they played with the extra yard afforded by the Offsiders’ standing off. And the goals rewardingly followed.
Dean manipulated his body position on the D’s edge to take down and control a rebound off the back wall, for an expert smash into the net. Gareth continued to fight through the last defender, taking his solo opportunities with aplombing flicks and inside of the foot angled shooting. And Steve, never scoring the simple tap-ins, chugged his way through at least two markers, before putting his foot through a ball that nestled into the bottom left corner.
The last few minutes remain a blur, the chronology of events whacked out of focus, but what was certain - Lady Luck was rubbing her lady lumps right in our faces. Certain was, we were 9-6 down, with three and a half minutes to go, as the ref rung the gallows bell. Certain was, an outside ball bounced onto our pitch, the opposition playing on with their attack, that broke down with pace. Certain was, Leo took advantage of their keeper and defender’s nonchalant, almost disrespectful, ‘playing’ with that ball, to ram the match ball straight central into the net to pull the first back. Certain was, the ref let it ride, and there was little protest (ho-ho, oh for hindsight).
Gareth remained potent to the final money shot, hassling a last defender enough that he toe-poked it past his own keeper. Worthy effort enough to be claimed his own, Gareth would go on to seal the remarkable comeback, latching on to a speedball whipped through from Matt out on the left, as he drove it with his outside right into the net corner beyond. But the ref was a mere tease, calling the action back, as a result of some bullshit time-wasting timeout call from the enemy for “sub”, that left the Mollys still limp, down by one, Leo screaming for the ref to add on the time.
In the alternate Mollyverse, should we have been ahead by one, playing into the opposition’s corner as far away from our own goal, would be as necessary as breathing. But for the Offsiders, such tactical deliberations were absent, as they continued to press against us, looking to pinch that last inch of shit off, twisting the knife one final time in the dying minute.
Such mentality would be their undoing, as Leo instinctively gripped and ripped a three-point clutch shot from the half way line, delivering a final jab in the Offsiders’ ear, that stayed low and fast as the keeper let it fumble through him, at a distance, that Leo couldn’t even see to. Punch. That. Shit.
As the final whistle followed seconds after the kick-off whistle, the Mollys could do little but laugh and grin at this gobsmacking final result, much like I did after Spurs violated West Ham for what will no doubt be the last time in a long time. Part fortuitous, part grafted, all deserved, the second half turnabout really was the stuff of legends. But life carries on, a new match appears in the distance, and the team return to their Clark Kent alter-egos. Dean moving work office, Robbie bulking up for sympathy pregnancy, and Matt deciding which of his thousand pornos are couple-friendly enough to put on open display, when he and his missus have dinner guests.
Yet what you see, is ultimately what you get from this team of heroes, much unlike those humps, those bumps, those lovely lady lumps.
Goals Scorers: Gareth 5, Dean 1, Steve 1, Leo 2
Match Ratings: Matt 8, Steve 8, Leo 8, Robbie 8, Dean 8, Gareth 9,
Man of the Match: Gareth
Thursday, 1 March 2007
The Next Step
It used to be an ambition of mine in a previous incarnation of the team, to actually film the exploits of The Molly Maguires, and create a truly unique footballing documentary (or mockumentary) to rival Graham Taylor, having previously made several amateur films (not that kind..) in the past. It was a lofty ambition, one that would've required much graft, cooperation, someone to hold the bloody camera, whilst I actually played, and an enthusiasm for the game that had been increasingly on the wane.
Time and technology have now moved on. Interest has increased, and with this website medium to exploit, it feels natural that The Molly Maguires should go digital. To this end, I have a number of project ideas that I will endeavour to put into action soon (none of which I will spoil for you now). Rest assured, videoing and watching 40 minutes of us playing like crap will not be an option. Even Don can't stand to watch us live anymore.
Time and technology have now moved on. Interest has increased, and with this website medium to exploit, it feels natural that The Molly Maguires should go digital. To this end, I have a number of project ideas that I will endeavour to put into action soon (none of which I will spoil for you now). Rest assured, videoing and watching 40 minutes of us playing like crap will not be an option. Even Don can't stand to watch us live anymore.
I'd be grateful if this blog's readership of four(?) could let me know that they can access the YouTube video below. Thanks. Keep watching.
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