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
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