Thursday, 31 May 2007
Wednesday, 30 May 2007
Match 4 - Season 2 (summer)
MATCH 4 vs. Hank & Clive 30/5/07 19:00
Drew 9-9
1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 8.Jon 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 14.Nobby
“I’m a fire, and I burn, burn, burn tonight”
Jeez, I must have drifted off. How long was I asleep for? Is the cup final still on?
It feels like fourever since I last played football four the Molly Maguires. Quite fourtuitous really that I didn’t play in that last outing. Can hardly be held accountable four that particular fourgone conclusion. And while the undeserved promotion to League One controversy continues, those of us players, whom isn’t a cry-baby, nor whom now dote on a crying baby, will just have to pull their socks up and get on with the fight.
As time swills around my feet like sloping out at a slaughterhouse, questions before the start of the day fluttered around in my cranium. By the end of the day, those questions would be answered. When would the man they call Nobby, and his mono-coloured fleece, return to the squad? Who on earth is Michael Bradshaw? Do I still give a damn about Big Brother? By how much is Scott Parker not worth £8.5M of West Ham’s blood money?
And so to everyone’s favourite part of the proceedings - the gaffa’s bizarre and ludicrous team selection process that’s worthy of a report; blog; website; information super highway, all of it’s own. With Matt’s short term memory so failing to retain any information about Robbie’s fatherhood, that the Turk is expected to literally leave his missus holding the baby, and then making travel arrangements with his replacement and Jon, that would make a taxi driver suffer a guilt trip. And shit, there was even a call-up for David Beckham too.
Once again, the Mollys chalked up another 9-9 draw – the fourth in the last ten effective matches. But this was a tale of two keepers, a thousand shots on target, and a half time team talk of brutal truth. The ref would’ve needed a scoreboard to keep goal track had either keeper been less than their best. This all begs the question: scoreboards at football grounds - why? The clock’s purpose I can understand, but a scoreboard persistently and continuously reminding you of the two teams you’ve paid money to watch, and of a score that’s hardly going to be ramping up into double figures that you’re going to lose count? Oh wait, I get it – for people like eh, whatshisname…….. Matt.
Wow, it’s just as well I don’t get paid for this shit, or have deadlines to meet, because I’m seriously failing in my journalistic responsibility to convey to you the events of Molly Maguires football matches. I’m gonna have to stop writing half a report, and hoping I get inspired to finish it… so here come some random factual bullet points instead.
-Echoing the England team’s fortunes, the Mollys were buoyed by the return of the legendary Nobby, leaner and with flowing Robbie Savage locks; the quintessential water-carrier slipped back into the side as if never away.
-The opposition, Hank & Clive, were deceptive in name, and unfortunately not a couple of gay, motorcycle-riding, piano-playing chefs.
-With a strong defence, and even stronger attacking frontline, this looked a formidable Mollys side on paper. But until the personnel got their tactics right in the second half, we were actually decimated 5-1 in the first half.
-One goal to show for the first half, barely explains away the number of great chances that the Molly front men conjured up, shots on target were overwhelming, but the opposition’s keeper was absolutely superb in blocking Gareth’s and Nathan’s efforts. It’s worrying for any Molly fan, when the opposition pay loud sideline tributes to Matt’s efforts in goal, in reality thinly veiled self-congratulatory big-ups for their own attacking skills, and Jon attempts to counter the argument with his own praise for Hank & Clive’s keeper.
-Hell, why pass the ball to a better available Molly player, when you can hit it straight at the keeper? Early on, their keeper must’ve sussed that once our strikers had the ball, their overriding instinct to shoot, leaving him with no surprises.
-Steve was high. On crack. PCP. Viagra. Whatever stimulated him to run around the pitch like an infected Rage victim, crashing into people, and giving away needless free-kicks in awkward places.
-The half-time team talk, was a huge telling off for our superstar glory-hunting forward line, as Jon told them to pass the ball to the better placed player (even if that was Nobby) and to stop complaining about being the last defender. And Steve, with tactical genius, suggested a flat back two to counter an opposition that knew not how to hold their positions properly when with the ball.
-And fuck, did all of that shit work. With Leo realising he couldn’t operate alongside Steve in defence, and only coming on in his place instead, the flat back two – zonal marking the left and right, whether Jon and Steve, or Leo and Nobby – managed to keep the opposition attackers quiet long enough for the front men to finally find the space around their keeper.
-With counter-attacking their high line, and winning more tackles and blocks, the Mollys finally managed to play to their strengths, quick but accurate passing out of the middle of the pitch into crucial danger areas, where better composure saw Nathan, Gareth, and Jon all post terrific goals to drag the team 5 consecutive goals back onto level terms.
-Matt was still having a phenomenal game, still having to work hard, but easily chalking up his best performance in ages.
-Even when the opposition pushed further away to 9-6, the Mollys again found another second wind, to claw their way back, with Jon scoring the now obligatory behind the half-way line pot-shot. Always amazing how an equalized 9-9 draw is better than a conceded one.
-And so the Mollys gifted Hank & Clive their only point of the season so far, but came away from the match reasonably satisfied that when we get it right, we can be devastating. But do we need a full twenty minutes to work out our mistakes?
-And so to the answers. 1) Today, with a brilliant vengeance that almost made up for the passing away of that beautiful beige fur. 2) Some bloke who can’t play for the team due to child-care commitments – damn Matt, why haven’t you announced him in a squad yet – he seems ideal for your selection policy. 3) Women aren’t gonna get naked if there aren’t any blokes to impress. 4) That’s just not funny.
Goal Scorers: Gareth 2, Jon 3, Nathan 3, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 8, Steve 7, Leo 7, Jon 8, Gareth 8, Nathan 8, Nobby 8
Drew 9-9
1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 8.Jon 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 14.Nobby
“I’m a fire, and I burn, burn, burn tonight”
It feels like fourever since I last played football four the Molly Maguires. Quite fourtuitous really that I didn’t play in that last outing. Can hardly be held accountable four that particular fourgone conclusion. And while the undeserved promotion to League One controversy continues, those of us players, whom isn’t a cry-baby, nor whom now dote on a crying baby, will just have to pull their socks up and get on with the fight.
As time swills around my feet like sloping out at a slaughterhouse, questions before the start of the day fluttered around in my cranium. By the end of the day, those questions would be answered. When would the man they call Nobby, and his mono-coloured fleece, return to the squad? Who on earth is Michael Bradshaw? Do I still give a damn about Big Brother? By how much is Scott Parker not worth £8.5M of West Ham’s blood money?
And so to everyone’s favourite part of the proceedings - the gaffa’s bizarre and ludicrous team selection process that’s worthy of a report; blog; website; information super highway, all of it’s own. With Matt’s short term memory so failing to retain any information about Robbie’s fatherhood, that the Turk is expected to literally leave his missus holding the baby, and then making travel arrangements with his replacement and Jon, that would make a taxi driver suffer a guilt trip. And shit, there was even a call-up for David Beckham too.
Once again, the Mollys chalked up another 9-9 draw – the fourth in the last ten effective matches. But this was a tale of two keepers, a thousand shots on target, and a half time team talk of brutal truth. The ref would’ve needed a scoreboard to keep goal track had either keeper been less than their best. This all begs the question: scoreboards at football grounds - why? The clock’s purpose I can understand, but a scoreboard persistently and continuously reminding you of the two teams you’ve paid money to watch, and of a score that’s hardly going to be ramping up into double figures that you’re going to lose count? Oh wait, I get it – for people like eh, whatshisname…….. Matt.
Wow, it’s just as well I don’t get paid for this shit, or have deadlines to meet, because I’m seriously failing in my journalistic responsibility to convey to you the events of Molly Maguires football matches. I’m gonna have to stop writing half a report, and hoping I get inspired to finish it… so here come some random factual bullet points instead.
-Echoing the England team’s fortunes, the Mollys were buoyed by the return of the legendary Nobby, leaner and with flowing Robbie Savage locks; the quintessential water-carrier slipped back into the side as if never away.
-The opposition, Hank & Clive, were deceptive in name, and unfortunately not a couple of gay, motorcycle-riding, piano-playing chefs.
-With a strong defence, and even stronger attacking frontline, this looked a formidable Mollys side on paper. But until the personnel got their tactics right in the second half, we were actually decimated 5-1 in the first half.
-One goal to show for the first half, barely explains away the number of great chances that the Molly front men conjured up, shots on target were overwhelming, but the opposition’s keeper was absolutely superb in blocking Gareth’s and Nathan’s efforts. It’s worrying for any Molly fan, when the opposition pay loud sideline tributes to Matt’s efforts in goal, in reality thinly veiled self-congratulatory big-ups for their own attacking skills, and Jon attempts to counter the argument with his own praise for Hank & Clive’s keeper.
-Hell, why pass the ball to a better available Molly player, when you can hit it straight at the keeper? Early on, their keeper must’ve sussed that once our strikers had the ball, their overriding instinct to shoot, leaving him with no surprises.
-Steve was high. On crack. PCP. Viagra. Whatever stimulated him to run around the pitch like an infected Rage victim, crashing into people, and giving away needless free-kicks in awkward places.
-The half-time team talk, was a huge telling off for our superstar glory-hunting forward line, as Jon told them to pass the ball to the better placed player (even if that was Nobby) and to stop complaining about being the last defender. And Steve, with tactical genius, suggested a flat back two to counter an opposition that knew not how to hold their positions properly when with the ball.
-And fuck, did all of that shit work. With Leo realising he couldn’t operate alongside Steve in defence, and only coming on in his place instead, the flat back two – zonal marking the left and right, whether Jon and Steve, or Leo and Nobby – managed to keep the opposition attackers quiet long enough for the front men to finally find the space around their keeper.
-With counter-attacking their high line, and winning more tackles and blocks, the Mollys finally managed to play to their strengths, quick but accurate passing out of the middle of the pitch into crucial danger areas, where better composure saw Nathan, Gareth, and Jon all post terrific goals to drag the team 5 consecutive goals back onto level terms.
-Matt was still having a phenomenal game, still having to work hard, but easily chalking up his best performance in ages.
-Even when the opposition pushed further away to 9-6, the Mollys again found another second wind, to claw their way back, with Jon scoring the now obligatory behind the half-way line pot-shot. Always amazing how an equalized 9-9 draw is better than a conceded one.
-And so the Mollys gifted Hank & Clive their only point of the season so far, but came away from the match reasonably satisfied that when we get it right, we can be devastating. But do we need a full twenty minutes to work out our mistakes?
-And so to the answers. 1) Today, with a brilliant vengeance that almost made up for the passing away of that beautiful beige fur. 2) Some bloke who can’t play for the team due to child-care commitments – damn Matt, why haven’t you announced him in a squad yet – he seems ideal for your selection policy. 3) Women aren’t gonna get naked if there aren’t any blokes to impress. 4) That’s just not funny.
Goal Scorers: Gareth 2, Jon 3, Nathan 3, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 8, Steve 7, Leo 7, Jon 8, Gareth 8, Nathan 8, Nobby 8
MOTM: Nobby
Tuesday, 29 May 2007
Wednesday, 23 May 2007
Match 3 - Season 2 (summer)
MATCH 3 vs. West Germany FC 23/5/07 21:15
WON 10-0
By default, in the most pathetic league......ever.
WON 10-0
By default, in the most pathetic league......ever.
Saturday, 19 May 2007
Thursday, 17 May 2007
Match 2 - Season 2 (summer)
MATCH 2 vs. The Mighty Ducks 16/5/07 20:30
LOST 5-18
1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 8.Jon 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 12.Mark
Many thanks to Club Reporter for the following report:
Lame Ducks: Mollys Humiliated, Donald (Johnson) Distraught!!!
by Club Reporter
Turgid, amateurish, pathetic, emotionless, shit.......and that was just the warm up. The match was far worse. The Mollys' suffered a humiliating defeat 18-5 defeat at the hands of The Mighty Ducks; a team they had matched goal for goal in an enthralling 9-9 draw only 2 weeks earlier. The Mollys now find themselves rooted to the foot of Division 1 following their bizarre promotion, a move proving to be as controversial in the bars and pubs of Millbrook as that of the Premier League's decision not to dock the Hammers 10 points. Morale is at an all time low. News of Nobby's return from the Asian Sub-continent (the sub-continent itself, not a curry house) this week is the only bright spark on the horizon. His 12 touch, hard running, power game will be required if the Blues are to acheive any semblance of respectability from the remaining games this season.
The day started with the usual team selection shenanigans. Robbie dropped out, his mind on unimportant matters; namely the imminent arrival of his first child. Steve claimed Leo was at the Guildhall watching Spandau Ballet. A bizarre choice on his part following his previous week's goal orgy. 8:15 arrived with only 4 players available in the bar. Don had come in his shorts......at least that's what he claimed the stain was, and so was ready to step into the breach but was eventually surplus to requirements. Matt had forgotten the warm up ball and so it was a tentative squad that lined up for the 840 kick off.
To be fair to the Mighty Ducks, they played well. The keeper was in inspired form, saving at least 6 sure fire goals. The fat bald man (Kingpin?) pulled the strings in midfield and the pony tailed fop swept up at the back with calm assurance. The victory was deserved. Nevertheless, the first half Mollys performance was as bad as it has ever been. Jon's fitness levels rivalled that of a sloth's; observant critics claim it was his worst performance for several weeks. Awful. Gareth played far too deep and seemed off the pace, scoring only 4 peaches this week. Matt pulled off one of his spectacular arse saves; the resulting rebound proving to be the most accurate throw out of the evening. Even Don's support lacked clarity and focus; resorting at one stage to such lame and incoherent cries of "Shoot man! Ya canna do it cause your tongue tired!"
If anyone came out of the match with any credit it was Steve and Mark; the latter fast earning a deserved reputation as a Headless Chicken. Fresh from his holiday in the sun, Steve's tan gave him the look, if not the feel, of a toothless Yul Bryner. Despite some poor positional sense, his tireless running, good humour and motivational skills earned him deserved plaudits on the night. Mark is clearly a special player. Perhaps only the return of a chimera/centaur/griffin like creature consisting of the head of Mr X and body of Ben could dislodge him from the squad now.
The defeat was deserved, the scoreline, depressingly, wasn`t that flattering to the Ducks. If anything they should have scored more. Heads dropped at the end, though some positives can be gained from the first 10 minutes of the second half where the Mollys matched the Ducks. It's going to be a long hard season. Roll on relegation and a crack at the dross that we are used to playing against.
Ratings: Matt 4, Jon 4, Steve 6, Gareth 6, Mark 3, Adam 4, Nathan 5
LOST 5-18
1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 8.Jon 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 12.Mark
Many thanks to Club Reporter for the following report:
Lame Ducks: Mollys Humiliated, Donald (Johnson) Distraught!!!
by Club Reporter
Turgid, amateurish, pathetic, emotionless, shit.......and that was just the warm up. The match was far worse. The Mollys' suffered a humiliating defeat 18-5 defeat at the hands of The Mighty Ducks; a team they had matched goal for goal in an enthralling 9-9 draw only 2 weeks earlier. The Mollys now find themselves rooted to the foot of Division 1 following their bizarre promotion, a move proving to be as controversial in the bars and pubs of Millbrook as that of the Premier League's decision not to dock the Hammers 10 points. Morale is at an all time low. News of Nobby's return from the Asian Sub-continent (the sub-continent itself, not a curry house) this week is the only bright spark on the horizon. His 12 touch, hard running, power game will be required if the Blues are to acheive any semblance of respectability from the remaining games this season.
The day started with the usual team selection shenanigans. Robbie dropped out, his mind on unimportant matters; namely the imminent arrival of his first child. Steve claimed Leo was at the Guildhall watching Spandau Ballet. A bizarre choice on his part following his previous week's goal orgy. 8:15 arrived with only 4 players available in the bar. Don had come in his shorts......at least that's what he claimed the stain was, and so was ready to step into the breach but was eventually surplus to requirements. Matt had forgotten the warm up ball and so it was a tentative squad that lined up for the 840 kick off.
To be fair to the Mighty Ducks, they played well. The keeper was in inspired form, saving at least 6 sure fire goals. The fat bald man (Kingpin?) pulled the strings in midfield and the pony tailed fop swept up at the back with calm assurance. The victory was deserved. Nevertheless, the first half Mollys performance was as bad as it has ever been. Jon's fitness levels rivalled that of a sloth's; observant critics claim it was his worst performance for several weeks. Awful. Gareth played far too deep and seemed off the pace, scoring only 4 peaches this week. Matt pulled off one of his spectacular arse saves; the resulting rebound proving to be the most accurate throw out of the evening. Even Don's support lacked clarity and focus; resorting at one stage to such lame and incoherent cries of "Shoot man! Ya canna do it cause your tongue tired!"
If anyone came out of the match with any credit it was Steve and Mark; the latter fast earning a deserved reputation as a Headless Chicken. Fresh from his holiday in the sun, Steve's tan gave him the look, if not the feel, of a toothless Yul Bryner. Despite some poor positional sense, his tireless running, good humour and motivational skills earned him deserved plaudits on the night. Mark is clearly a special player. Perhaps only the return of a chimera/centaur/griffin like creature consisting of the head of Mr X and body of Ben could dislodge him from the squad now.
The defeat was deserved, the scoreline, depressingly, wasn`t that flattering to the Ducks. If anything they should have scored more. Heads dropped at the end, though some positives can be gained from the first 10 minutes of the second half where the Mollys matched the Ducks. It's going to be a long hard season. Roll on relegation and a crack at the dross that we are used to playing against.
Ratings: Matt 4, Jon 4, Steve 6, Gareth 6, Mark 3, Adam 4, Nathan 5
Goals: Gareth 4, Nathan 1
MOTM: Steve
MOTM: Steve
Monday, 14 May 2007
Match 1 - Season 2 (summer)
MATCH 1 vs. Whitehouse FC 9/5/07 20:30
LOST 4-18
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 6.Robbie 9.Gareth 11.Adam 12.Mark 13.Manon
“If we don’t know where we belong, it’ll make no difference where we started”
I write this report after the real important football season has now finished. The only season and the only league that mattered - the Premiership. Not the disappointing rip-your-shirt-off tease of the Championship play-offs. Not the pink-kitted failed glory-hunting quest for a plant holder. Not a Cup final between two second-rate European losers. I write this report after the only match that matters has now finished, as West Ham United crushed Manchester United 1-0 for the second time this season to retain top league status, and survive The Quashie Effect.
The Molly Maguires themselves were playing with a shadow squad – Don cruising, Dean supposedly at the cricket, Steve and Martin in the trough of a fitness/age axis, Jon on the porcelain potty, and Nathan apparently benched surplus to requirements (?!). Against opposition they had taken four points from last season, this match nevertheless had ominous portent that was hardly helped by the fevered waiting for Adam’s late showing - he’ll have no doubt wished he could’ve skulked back into his car and gone home by the time this debacle was in full swing.
Even with a potentially young, quick, skilled ringer, in Gareth’s friend Mark, his usefulness ultimately seemed limited to driving Gareth to the match. Hardly worth £5.5M of anyone’s Monopoly money, playing with an ineligible player got the Mollys what they deserved – three points deducted, and a minus 14 goal difference.
So before any more catfights and handbag slinging destabilise an otherwise harmonious squad who love their Gaffa’s efficiency, who believe in team sacrifice above personal glory, who always want to play despite odds-on that they’re due for a tonking, lets cheer everyone up with a description of the team's quartet of goals (and a long range punt against the post) – two in each half, and all significantly brilliant to be worth trading with your friends. Collect them all.
Firstly a slash/stroke/tackle, that Leo’s foot scythed the defender and into the ball to boom it past the keeper into the net. Secondly, latching onto great work from Gareth, the pass through saw Leo trap and turn on the ball, on the edge of the D, before lashing home. Thirdly, gripping onto a loose ball around the D, Leo played a cunning one-two off the keeper’s chest before burying the aerial ball into the loving net. And finally, Leo used his pace to sprint down a throw out from the keeper for one of his patented intercepted in yer face returns.
With Leo duly taking on some of the attacking burden left by the Nathan shaped hole, and actually scoring, this would probably be the best time to talk about the conspiracy that has since enveloped Nathan’s non-attendance. It is fact that Matt named Nathan in the team. It is fact that Nathan enjoys playing, and is always available, barring emergency. It is fact that Nathan is always the last to arrive. So there we all were (when I saw ‘we all’ I mean those who weren’t watching runs or having runs) expecting his arrival anytime during the first ten minutes of the match. Matt suitably convinced us all that he was going to attend, inspiring the kind of false hope that gets you relegated, and so seemed utterly convinced himself.
With whispers and rumours circulating about what was actually said between the Gaffa and Nathan, a schism is almost breaking out in the dressing room of Rijkaard vs. Eto’o proportions, with the Captain’s case not helped by a verified history of memory lapses and flawed team selections. Slightly off-topic speculation followed, about his skin ink art, and the need to tattoo important information on himself (Encyclopaedia Britannica anyone?), to help remember (‘This Way Up’ on the forehead; perhaps a Mad Magazine style fold-in picture on the belly).
The game itself went to hell in a rat shit handbag. The defending was way off-kilter, players getting sucked into rash challenges that left them the wrong side of goal, the pace of the opposition not being mirrored by their counterparts, and shots being rained down on Matt like free cream pies throws at a clown.
In defence, Robbie cried like a lost child at an amusement park, people swarming all around him, oblivious to his desperation. Up front, Gareth had his worst shooting performance in ages, unable to get remotely close to tickling the net, shooting the ground around A-Team-style, rather than a f-ing head-kill. The opposition played like an on-speed version of a Nickelodeon cartoon inbred with a Japanese beat-em up. All grunts, and whoops, and hollahs, adorning nicknames like Scagg, Twat and Cocksucker. They played with a passion and pace that we couldn’t live with, and it was only Matt’s superb keeping skills that saw the Mollys trail by just 6 goals to 2 at the end of the first half.
Second half was much, much worse. Every shot fired by the opposition was hitting the target, Matt not getting this kind of workout since he was last on top. And for every acrobatic save he pulled off, another he let slip past him with all the conviction of a Kelvin Davis, another would just be the kind of unstoppable scorcher that Robbie can’t even dream of, with an own goal from Mark’s breeze block first touch rounding off a disappointing sequence. The ferocity of the opposition’s shots meant Matt just couldn’t hold onto the ball, parrying it out, and back in open play, where tired legs were desperately trying to scramble the ball back into the D’s safety.
Robbie continued to whinge like it was somehow the Molly’s attackers’ fault that he showed too much space to the oncoming strikers. Had Gareth scored our four goals, I very much doubt Robbie would be blaming him for his off night, that could not have been better rounded off than a petulant throw of his boots into our goalmouth.
With Matt getting a much needed rest playing in the outfield for the last few minutes, and Mark taking over picking the ball out of the net duties, the match reached it’s nadir. A new low for The Molly Maguires, since their misconceived stint in the top league at the team’s inception.
Goal Scorers: Leo 4
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Leo 6, Robbie 5, Gareth 5, Adam 5, Mark 5
MOTM: Leo
LOST 4-18
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 6.Robbie 9.Gareth 11.Adam 12.Mark 13.Manon
“If we don’t know where we belong, it’ll make no difference where we started”
I write this report after the real important football season has now finished. The only season and the only league that mattered - the Premiership. Not the disappointing rip-your-shirt-off tease of the Championship play-offs. Not the pink-kitted failed glory-hunting quest for a plant holder. Not a Cup final between two second-rate European losers. I write this report after the only match that matters has now finished, as West Ham United crushed Manchester United 1-0 for the second time this season to retain top league status, and survive The Quashie Effect.
The Molly Maguires themselves were playing with a shadow squad – Don cruising, Dean supposedly at the cricket, Steve and Martin in the trough of a fitness/age axis, Jon on the porcelain potty, and Nathan apparently benched surplus to requirements (?!). Against opposition they had taken four points from last season, this match nevertheless had ominous portent that was hardly helped by the fevered waiting for Adam’s late showing - he’ll have no doubt wished he could’ve skulked back into his car and gone home by the time this debacle was in full swing.
Even with a potentially young, quick, skilled ringer, in Gareth’s friend Mark, his usefulness ultimately seemed limited to driving Gareth to the match. Hardly worth £5.5M of anyone’s Monopoly money, playing with an ineligible player got the Mollys what they deserved – three points deducted, and a minus 14 goal difference.
So before any more catfights and handbag slinging destabilise an otherwise harmonious squad who love their Gaffa’s efficiency, who believe in team sacrifice above personal glory, who always want to play despite odds-on that they’re due for a tonking, lets cheer everyone up with a description of the team's quartet of goals (and a long range punt against the post) – two in each half, and all significantly brilliant to be worth trading with your friends. Collect them all.
Firstly a slash/stroke/tackle, that Leo’s foot scythed the defender and into the ball to boom it past the keeper into the net. Secondly, latching onto great work from Gareth, the pass through saw Leo trap and turn on the ball, on the edge of the D, before lashing home. Thirdly, gripping onto a loose ball around the D, Leo played a cunning one-two off the keeper’s chest before burying the aerial ball into the loving net. And finally, Leo used his pace to sprint down a throw out from the keeper for one of his patented intercepted in yer face returns.
With Leo duly taking on some of the attacking burden left by the Nathan shaped hole, and actually scoring, this would probably be the best time to talk about the conspiracy that has since enveloped Nathan’s non-attendance. It is fact that Matt named Nathan in the team. It is fact that Nathan enjoys playing, and is always available, barring emergency. It is fact that Nathan is always the last to arrive. So there we all were (when I saw ‘we all’ I mean those who weren’t watching runs or having runs) expecting his arrival anytime during the first ten minutes of the match. Matt suitably convinced us all that he was going to attend, inspiring the kind of false hope that gets you relegated, and so seemed utterly convinced himself.
With whispers and rumours circulating about what was actually said between the Gaffa and Nathan, a schism is almost breaking out in the dressing room of Rijkaard vs. Eto’o proportions, with the Captain’s case not helped by a verified history of memory lapses and flawed team selections. Slightly off-topic speculation followed, about his skin ink art, and the need to tattoo important information on himself (Encyclopaedia Britannica anyone?), to help remember (‘This Way Up’ on the forehead; perhaps a Mad Magazine style fold-in picture on the belly).
The game itself went to hell in a rat shit handbag. The defending was way off-kilter, players getting sucked into rash challenges that left them the wrong side of goal, the pace of the opposition not being mirrored by their counterparts, and shots being rained down on Matt like free cream pies throws at a clown.
In defence, Robbie cried like a lost child at an amusement park, people swarming all around him, oblivious to his desperation. Up front, Gareth had his worst shooting performance in ages, unable to get remotely close to tickling the net, shooting the ground around A-Team-style, rather than a f-ing head-kill. The opposition played like an on-speed version of a Nickelodeon cartoon inbred with a Japanese beat-em up. All grunts, and whoops, and hollahs, adorning nicknames like Scagg, Twat and Cocksucker. They played with a passion and pace that we couldn’t live with, and it was only Matt’s superb keeping skills that saw the Mollys trail by just 6 goals to 2 at the end of the first half.
Second half was much, much worse. Every shot fired by the opposition was hitting the target, Matt not getting this kind of workout since he was last on top. And for every acrobatic save he pulled off, another he let slip past him with all the conviction of a Kelvin Davis, another would just be the kind of unstoppable scorcher that Robbie can’t even dream of, with an own goal from Mark’s breeze block first touch rounding off a disappointing sequence. The ferocity of the opposition’s shots meant Matt just couldn’t hold onto the ball, parrying it out, and back in open play, where tired legs were desperately trying to scramble the ball back into the D’s safety.
Robbie continued to whinge like it was somehow the Molly’s attackers’ fault that he showed too much space to the oncoming strikers. Had Gareth scored our four goals, I very much doubt Robbie would be blaming him for his off night, that could not have been better rounded off than a petulant throw of his boots into our goalmouth.
With Matt getting a much needed rest playing in the outfield for the last few minutes, and Mark taking over picking the ball out of the net duties, the match reached it’s nadir. A new low for The Molly Maguires, since their misconceived stint in the top league at the team’s inception.
Goal Scorers: Leo 4
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Leo 6, Robbie 5, Gareth 5, Adam 5, Mark 5
MOTM: Leo
Jon's Awards Of The Season Spring 2007
Due to an abhorrently pathetic response to my request for nominations for last season's players' poll (it wasn't like I was asking you to write a 10,000 word dissertation on thermonuclear dynamics, with the blood of your first born), Jon has claimed sole right to award the 'prizes'. At least it's still more worthy than the Brits.
Best Team Performance
10-10 vs Jason's Hemets. The 2nd half was footballing poetry.
Worst Team Performance
Worst Team Performance
0-10 by default vs Almost England. Despite offers of ringers, a squad as big as we`ve ever had and at least 5 players able to play on the night, the game was shockingly conceded. The fans deserve more.
Best Individual Match Performance
Best Individual Match Performance
Don vs Jason's Helmets. Who needs Rocky VI or Die Hard V. That was OAP action at its rawest
Best Non Match Performance
Best Non Match Performance
Leo's Brother (Ivan). Scorcese waited 30 years for his Oscar. Methinks, the Mollys match will gain all the awards at this year's ceremonies
Best New Player
Best New Player
Manon. Always available for a pass. Was he bumming Matt this season? Seemed to get preferential attention.
Most Improved Player
Most Improved Player
Robbie's Neighbour (Dean X). Don`t know his name. All I know I know is that he was better than the last Mr X incumbent
Most Indispensible Player
Most Indispensible Player
Matt. Formidable organisational skills. Unbeatable shot stopper. He`s also married to Uma Thurman and lives in a gold mansion on the moon
Special Mention/Highlight of the Season
Special Mention/Highlight of the Season
The weekly soap opera that is team selection. Always good to arrive for the match not knowing if we have 4 players or 8. Honourable mention to the Injury List. At one stage 4 managers were laid up with various ailments
Tuesday, 8 May 2007
Monday, 7 May 2007
End Of Season Statistics
Appearances - Goals - Av. Rating - MOTM
1.Matt 11 – 0 – 6.9 – 1
3.Don 1 – 0 – 9.0 – 1
4.Steve 9 – 5 – 6.8 – 1
5.Leo 8 – 6 – 7.0 – 1
6.Robbie 8 – 1 – 7.1 – 1
7.Dean 7 – 1 – 7.1 – 0
8.Jon 8 – 8 – 7.0 – 1
9.Gareth 12 – 54 – 7.6 – 2
10.Aneel 2 – 0 – 7.0 – 0
11.Adam 5 – 3 – 6.8 – 0
12.Martin 4 – 3 – 6.5 – 0
13.Dean X 1 – 0 – 7.0 – 0
14.Nathan 7 – 23 – 7.6 – 1
1.Matt 11 – 0 – 6.9 – 1
3.Don 1 – 0 – 9.0 – 1
4.Steve 9 – 5 – 6.8 – 1
5.Leo 8 – 6 – 7.0 – 1
6.Robbie 8 – 1 – 7.1 – 1
7.Dean 7 – 1 – 7.1 – 0
8.Jon 8 – 8 – 7.0 – 1
9.Gareth 12 – 54 – 7.6 – 2
10.Aneel 2 – 0 – 7.0 – 0
11.Adam 5 – 3 – 6.8 – 0
12.Martin 4 – 3 – 6.5 – 0
13.Dean X 1 – 0 – 7.0 – 0
14.Nathan 7 – 23 – 7.6 – 1
MOST APPEARANCES
Gareth 12
Matt 11
Steve 9
Leo/Robbie/Jon 8
TOP GOALSCORERS
Gareth 54
Nathan 23
Jon 8
Leo 6
Steve 5
TOP AVERAGE RATING
Don 9.0
Gareth/Nathan 7.6
Robbie/Dean 7.1
Leo/Jon/Aneel/Dean X 7.0
Friday, 4 May 2007
Match Fourteen
MATCH FOURTEEN vs. The Mighty Ducks 2/5/07 19:00
DRAW 9-9
1.Matt(c) 5.Leo 9.Gareth 11.Adam 12.Martin 14.Nathan
“To be my babe. To be my bait.”
And so it ends. Nothing screams finality like death. Nothing screams unstoppable like controversy. Nothing screams inevitability like a jilted, social leper’s record-bustingly gunning down U.S. university students, weaned on the torture of small animals, trained on PC military simulators, and videoed glory-baiting posturing. Across the pond, the males of this country throw up their collective arms, and burn their jockstraps in protest, as a female commentator debuts on Match of the Day, denting the gender dominance. In more dulcet tones, the usual clichéd nonsense comes across as faint self-parody.
Drawing on these dissimilar but poignant blips in history, I, Lungboy, am inspired into the high concept of this match report. Not one normally able to deposit myself into the mind of a female, not without a bore drill and a funnel, it would be a fashionable novelty to have this season’s final report written from a female perspective. To this end, I have enlisted the help of Lunggirl for the task.
Well, when I say Lunggirl, I mean some random woman I saw leaving the library. When I say enlisted, I mean chloroformed and bundled into the boot of my car. When I say help, I mean in order to be freed from the 20ft deep pit in my basement. Okay. Put the lotion on. Get writing.
For a kick-a-ball in the beautiful sunrays of a shimmering seven o’clock evening, the squad again lost the talents of those lovely baby boys not afraid to see to their responsibilities to their trouser-wearing partners. As the squad number ballooned up and down, like the weight of all us women who talk about diets, fads and exercise, the team that took to the performing stage gave off a fruity fusion of footballing flavours, that would certainly make me switch off those musical reality talent search TV shows, whilst I’m ironing my smalls, for something altogether more heterosexual and manly.
All three of the season’s newcomers were playing together for the first time, alongside three first-choice-in-their-position players. Hunky handsome Adam’s presence peaking my interest in a match that had little significance beyond determining who finished fourth and fifth. He could so easily be my leading man – Brad to my Angelina, Ashton to my Demi. If football be the food of love, then play on. The match bristled with testosterone aggression, controversy and violence, with an opposition of The Mighty Ducks radiating skill from every pore, against a Molly Maguires side cobbled together from the spare parts of Greek gods and the male cast of Hollyoaks.
Great things were expected from the team following their sensational return to form two weeks ago, and unlike the French knickers I am wearing under duress, there would be no frills from these beautiful boys. In goal was scrummy mummy Matt – adorable that he’s carrying his partner’s child, in a real-life Junior experiment, whilst his partner earns the bread, and displaying such capacity for movement, he picked the shaded end for the first half advantage, that the team would immediately capitalise on.
Right, that’s enough insipid nonsense. Put your ball-gag back in and keep quiet. With Nathan doing his usual late arrival, it was left to the starting five to ease their way into a match that saw the first couple of attacks reap reward, both Leo and Adam turning in simple passing shots from the accurate play of Gareth and Martin. A dream start and lead that would be consistently tested by crappy decisions of the over-familiar pseudo-black referee, our weaken state of fitness, and some rough man-taking challenges.
Against a team that had previously beaten us 10-6, we were matching them across the pitch, and the arrival of Nathan, and our sixth man, enhanced the team further. Clearly operating under a misguided assumption that we were an easy five piece jigsaw of the colour blue, we maintained a solid, and professional marking system that reduced the opposition’s shooting to the bare minimum. But with the ball at our feet, retaliation was swift and decisive, against The Mighty Ducks’ poorly timed tackling, our front line whiz-dribbling through them, with a tenacious temerity.
Despite the ref’s inability to keep track of the goals we’d scored, we maintained our lead till half-time. Nathan out-proclaiming the Self-Appointed with an executed Goal Of The Season © to rival anything Argie, as he beat what seemed like twelve outfield players, with a drop of the shoulder here, and a Cryuff twist there, to decimate the ball home, in a Mad-Dog Dave wet dream scenario.
On the other side of the half way line, Leo and Adam were maintaining a physical manifestation of “Ye Shall Not Past”, and Martin was the blueprint from which the team system was being built from. Even at this early stage, the Ducks were livid with their turgid football that deservedly saw them at least two goals down going into the break.
Conspiracy theorists can look up from their half-spectacles all they want, but a third 9-9 draw of the season never seemed likely, as the Mollys continued to fight through an increasingly large fitness barrier to maintain a lead with three or four minutes to go. Nathan and Gareth were suitably pissing off the opposition with their antics to warrant some crunching tackles that saw them get thumped to the ground. The big fat bruiser of the Ducks saw fit to pile-drive through Gareth, to reduce him a to puddle of girly squeal on the floor. Despite protestations from the opposition, the referee was seemingly getting the foul decisions right – their physical tactics being duly punished.
Leo weighed in with a retaliatory ‘going for the ball’ tackle on the edge of the D that took out a Duck striker’s foot, like a 9-Iron through an egg, and the screams of agony that followed were just begging for a rebuke from Mr T. in a tank.
Still we were powerless when the ref failed to call an advantageous handball that saw the opposition score from, to drag our sorry arses back toward the pit. In the end it was arguably Matt that was holding the team together, as the Mollys were reduced to sitting back fatigued, trying to counter whenever possible. Our captain must’ve been having a good game, because I cannot recollect once having a pop at his shitty keeping during the match, and I never miss that sort of trick. What about dreamboat Adam? You haven’t mentioned him in a while. Martin, continuing to cheat the ravages of physical degradation, was dropping deeper, as a Molly siege formed, waiting for a whistle that only came after the opposition had finally reduced the deficit to nothing. Their incessant shouting at each other having the necessary psychological effect.
It was an anti-climatic way to end the season. Just like this report.
Goal Scorers: Leo 1, Adam 1, Nathan 2, Gareth 5
Match Ratings: Matt 8, Leo 7, Gareth 9, Adam 7, Martin 7, Nathan 9
DRAW 9-9
1.Matt(c) 5.Leo 9.Gareth 11.Adam 12.Martin 14.Nathan
“To be my babe. To be my bait.”
And so it ends. Nothing screams finality like death. Nothing screams unstoppable like controversy. Nothing screams inevitability like a jilted, social leper’s record-bustingly gunning down U.S. university students, weaned on the torture of small animals, trained on PC military simulators, and videoed glory-baiting posturing. Across the pond, the males of this country throw up their collective arms, and burn their jockstraps in protest, as a female commentator debuts on Match of the Day, denting the gender dominance. In more dulcet tones, the usual clichéd nonsense comes across as faint self-parody.
Drawing on these dissimilar but poignant blips in history, I, Lungboy, am inspired into the high concept of this match report. Not one normally able to deposit myself into the mind of a female, not without a bore drill and a funnel, it would be a fashionable novelty to have this season’s final report written from a female perspective. To this end, I have enlisted the help of Lunggirl for the task.
Well, when I say Lunggirl, I mean some random woman I saw leaving the library. When I say enlisted, I mean chloroformed and bundled into the boot of my car. When I say help, I mean in order to be freed from the 20ft deep pit in my basement. Okay. Put the lotion on. Get writing.
For a kick-a-ball in the beautiful sunrays of a shimmering seven o’clock evening, the squad again lost the talents of those lovely baby boys not afraid to see to their responsibilities to their trouser-wearing partners. As the squad number ballooned up and down, like the weight of all us women who talk about diets, fads and exercise, the team that took to the performing stage gave off a fruity fusion of footballing flavours, that would certainly make me switch off those musical reality talent search TV shows, whilst I’m ironing my smalls, for something altogether more heterosexual and manly.
All three of the season’s newcomers were playing together for the first time, alongside three first-choice-in-their-position players. Hunky handsome Adam’s presence peaking my interest in a match that had little significance beyond determining who finished fourth and fifth. He could so easily be my leading man – Brad to my Angelina, Ashton to my Demi. If football be the food of love, then play on. The match bristled with testosterone aggression, controversy and violence, with an opposition of The Mighty Ducks radiating skill from every pore, against a Molly Maguires side cobbled together from the spare parts of Greek gods and the male cast of Hollyoaks.
Great things were expected from the team following their sensational return to form two weeks ago, and unlike the French knickers I am wearing under duress, there would be no frills from these beautiful boys. In goal was scrummy mummy Matt – adorable that he’s carrying his partner’s child, in a real-life Junior experiment, whilst his partner earns the bread, and displaying such capacity for movement, he picked the shaded end for the first half advantage, that the team would immediately capitalise on.
Right, that’s enough insipid nonsense. Put your ball-gag back in and keep quiet. With Nathan doing his usual late arrival, it was left to the starting five to ease their way into a match that saw the first couple of attacks reap reward, both Leo and Adam turning in simple passing shots from the accurate play of Gareth and Martin. A dream start and lead that would be consistently tested by crappy decisions of the over-familiar pseudo-black referee, our weaken state of fitness, and some rough man-taking challenges.
Against a team that had previously beaten us 10-6, we were matching them across the pitch, and the arrival of Nathan, and our sixth man, enhanced the team further. Clearly operating under a misguided assumption that we were an easy five piece jigsaw of the colour blue, we maintained a solid, and professional marking system that reduced the opposition’s shooting to the bare minimum. But with the ball at our feet, retaliation was swift and decisive, against The Mighty Ducks’ poorly timed tackling, our front line whiz-dribbling through them, with a tenacious temerity.
Despite the ref’s inability to keep track of the goals we’d scored, we maintained our lead till half-time. Nathan out-proclaiming the Self-Appointed with an executed Goal Of The Season © to rival anything Argie, as he beat what seemed like twelve outfield players, with a drop of the shoulder here, and a Cryuff twist there, to decimate the ball home, in a Mad-Dog Dave wet dream scenario.
On the other side of the half way line, Leo and Adam were maintaining a physical manifestation of “Ye Shall Not Past”, and Martin was the blueprint from which the team system was being built from. Even at this early stage, the Ducks were livid with their turgid football that deservedly saw them at least two goals down going into the break.
Conspiracy theorists can look up from their half-spectacles all they want, but a third 9-9 draw of the season never seemed likely, as the Mollys continued to fight through an increasingly large fitness barrier to maintain a lead with three or four minutes to go. Nathan and Gareth were suitably pissing off the opposition with their antics to warrant some crunching tackles that saw them get thumped to the ground. The big fat bruiser of the Ducks saw fit to pile-drive through Gareth, to reduce him a to puddle of girly squeal on the floor. Despite protestations from the opposition, the referee was seemingly getting the foul decisions right – their physical tactics being duly punished.
Leo weighed in with a retaliatory ‘going for the ball’ tackle on the edge of the D that took out a Duck striker’s foot, like a 9-Iron through an egg, and the screams of agony that followed were just begging for a rebuke from Mr T. in a tank.
Still we were powerless when the ref failed to call an advantageous handball that saw the opposition score from, to drag our sorry arses back toward the pit. In the end it was arguably Matt that was holding the team together, as the Mollys were reduced to sitting back fatigued, trying to counter whenever possible. Our captain must’ve been having a good game, because I cannot recollect once having a pop at his shitty keeping during the match, and I never miss that sort of trick. What about dreamboat Adam? You haven’t mentioned him in a while. Martin, continuing to cheat the ravages of physical degradation, was dropping deeper, as a Molly siege formed, waiting for a whistle that only came after the opposition had finally reduced the deficit to nothing. Their incessant shouting at each other having the necessary psychological effect.
It was an anti-climatic way to end the season. Just like this report.
Goal Scorers: Leo 1, Adam 1, Nathan 2, Gareth 5
Match Ratings: Matt 8, Leo 7, Gareth 9, Adam 7, Martin 7, Nathan 9
MOTM: Matt (I appreciate that might not make much sense score-wise, but by his own recent low standards he was much better)
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