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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