Date: 29/8/07 Time: 19:45
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam
(n.b. probably offensive to someone)
ODE TO THE FEMALE REFEREE
The evening began like almost all
A team without a worthy ball
As Leo pushed hard to make inflate
The ball Nobby held in limp-like state
On the pitch things looked better
As one’s gusset got moist and wetter
For there a female ref with ass so pert
Running with a middle third leg sure can hurt
With hair so blonde and head of air
You couldn’t help but leer and stare
Shame she couldn’t ref for shit
A distraction with her perky tits
With shoulder charges and tackles wild
Unpunished like a spoilt brat child
The Mollys merely huffed and puffed
Playing like their legs were cuffed
So the ref couldn’t make a choice
Barely raised her plaintive voice
As decisions arbitrary got made
And our hopes of victory fade
Athletically she ran across the pitch
And we imagined she wore not a stitch
Sex appeal she did not lack
That beautiful babe in the black
Our team tactics just could not cope
As full-time losers off pitch we slope
But to a gorgeous honey we had to thank
Visual treat for that consolation wank
Final Score: 6-9
Goal scorers: Leo 1, Nobby 1, Gareth 2, Nathan 2
Match Ratings: Matt 5, Nobby 5, Steve 5, Leo 5, Gareth 5, Nathan 5, Adam 5
Friday, 31 August 2007
Thursday, 23 August 2007
Match 2 Season 3 vs. Just For Football
Date: 22/8/07 Time: 19:00
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 14.Michael
“I’ve been waiting. I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life. But it’s not quite right”
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 14.Michael
“I’ve been waiting. I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life. But it’s not quite right”
Early kick-offs used to be the delight of many a squad member. Back in the Hatton days of leadership, you’d get all the fair-weather players (i.e. Pete) suddenly available, and the announced squad would be a kind of reward scheme for those who’d braved the (shudder) 10 o’clock kick-offs.
Nowadays, people are up to their armpits in baby poop; they have kids who want to see EastEnders before bed-time; have demanding girlfriends, who insist you come with them and ogle their hockey team-mates in ra-ra skirts and spanky pants; or are wimps, too tired to travel home from work and then onwards to Millbrook in time.
So the team was a little short this week, such that Steve’s return from injury was just as welcome as finding a Werther’s Original behind a sofa cushion with only a little hair on it. With Matt’s fiancée’s brother being introduced into another extended family, this was a bottom heavy defensive line-up, that could’ve been detrimental, but in fact proved to be the Castle Grayskull of defensive foundations.
Make no mistake, Matt is soiling some superior genetic family material. A hulk of a man-mountain, Michael’s size and bulk actually meant something advantageous (unlike Adam and Don) in a sub-level mid-stage boss henchman kind of way, that you’d find in any good martial arts movie.
This was a game of records. The first of which was the fastest goal ever scored, probably anywhere ever. With Nathan worth at least one goal direct from kick-off a game, he wasted no time in notching up his first of the game, with the first sodding kick of the match. Doing that school play “are we ready?” acting, he performs that on the spot Chun-Li spin kick of his, to raze the ball home, and then tries desperately to keep the smuggest of grins off his face. The kind of smug you’d wanna slap off his face, were it not for the fact he’s on your side, and embarrassing the opposition with aplomb.
In open play, Just For Football had the right ideas, but totally the wrong execution. Playing an over-elaborate passing game that they just didn’t have the moxy to accomplish. Performing drag backs with the hugest of turning circles in the least damaging areas of the pitch. Shielding the ball from their marker with the uncouth audacity to back their ass right onto my cock. This was the equivalent of rendering the Sistine Chapel ceiling with Crayola.
Such frivolous opposition play meant for the Mollys complete non-stop end-to-end action, constant turnovers, relentless counter-attacks, 50-50 challenges, enough space to roll Beth Ditto’s fat ass through. Gareth and Nathan were sparking riots up top, Steve and Michael were patrolling the defensive perimeter, leaving Leo in an unaccustomed role of box-to-box runner.
Nathan snaffled a double hat-trick of goals, most of them unclean ricochets, including an own goal that his mere presence elicited such panic that JFF thought that suicidal defending was the better opt out; strike partner Gareth whacked in four, as the pair of them got overzealous with shooting at the opposition’s less than adequate keeper. Even new boy Michael weighed in with two on his debut, a ferocious toe-poke, and, for the second record of the game, a well-struck bullish blast from so far behind the halfway line that their keeper must’ve thought a bullet train from Japan was about to run him down.
At the back, Matt must’ve been day-dreaming of biscuits, as he got fooled, foxed and flummoxed on a number of occasions to give the opposition and their shouty, unkempt stinking spokesman enough opportunities to make the scoreline half-respectable, when they thoroughly deserved no such charity. At least Steve passed his fitness test with no ill-effects, and Michael needed no babysitting whilst the amok was running upfront.
The lack of a seventh man didn’t seem to hinder us much, and the balance of the side against such lower opposition was always the right side of Jenga. In fact, had Leo not found the keeper in scintillating form for his shots, and seemingly his shots alone, this could and should’ve been an absolute Manson massacre.
The game ended with a satisfactory 12-7 scoreline, keeping the Mollys well positioned in the upper echelons of the table, but with later kick-offs to come, expect the Molly Maguires B-team to be unleashed on an unexpecting league.
Final Score: 12-7
Nowadays, people are up to their armpits in baby poop; they have kids who want to see EastEnders before bed-time; have demanding girlfriends, who insist you come with them and ogle their hockey team-mates in ra-ra skirts and spanky pants; or are wimps, too tired to travel home from work and then onwards to Millbrook in time.
So the team was a little short this week, such that Steve’s return from injury was just as welcome as finding a Werther’s Original behind a sofa cushion with only a little hair on it. With Matt’s fiancée’s brother being introduced into another extended family, this was a bottom heavy defensive line-up, that could’ve been detrimental, but in fact proved to be the Castle Grayskull of defensive foundations.
Make no mistake, Matt is soiling some superior genetic family material. A hulk of a man-mountain, Michael’s size and bulk actually meant something advantageous (unlike Adam and Don) in a sub-level mid-stage boss henchman kind of way, that you’d find in any good martial arts movie.
This was a game of records. The first of which was the fastest goal ever scored, probably anywhere ever. With Nathan worth at least one goal direct from kick-off a game, he wasted no time in notching up his first of the game, with the first sodding kick of the match. Doing that school play “are we ready?” acting, he performs that on the spot Chun-Li spin kick of his, to raze the ball home, and then tries desperately to keep the smuggest of grins off his face. The kind of smug you’d wanna slap off his face, were it not for the fact he’s on your side, and embarrassing the opposition with aplomb.
In open play, Just For Football had the right ideas, but totally the wrong execution. Playing an over-elaborate passing game that they just didn’t have the moxy to accomplish. Performing drag backs with the hugest of turning circles in the least damaging areas of the pitch. Shielding the ball from their marker with the uncouth audacity to back their ass right onto my cock. This was the equivalent of rendering the Sistine Chapel ceiling with Crayola.
Such frivolous opposition play meant for the Mollys complete non-stop end-to-end action, constant turnovers, relentless counter-attacks, 50-50 challenges, enough space to roll Beth Ditto’s fat ass through. Gareth and Nathan were sparking riots up top, Steve and Michael were patrolling the defensive perimeter, leaving Leo in an unaccustomed role of box-to-box runner.
Nathan snaffled a double hat-trick of goals, most of them unclean ricochets, including an own goal that his mere presence elicited such panic that JFF thought that suicidal defending was the better opt out; strike partner Gareth whacked in four, as the pair of them got overzealous with shooting at the opposition’s less than adequate keeper. Even new boy Michael weighed in with two on his debut, a ferocious toe-poke, and, for the second record of the game, a well-struck bullish blast from so far behind the halfway line that their keeper must’ve thought a bullet train from Japan was about to run him down.
At the back, Matt must’ve been day-dreaming of biscuits, as he got fooled, foxed and flummoxed on a number of occasions to give the opposition and their shouty, unkempt stinking spokesman enough opportunities to make the scoreline half-respectable, when they thoroughly deserved no such charity. At least Steve passed his fitness test with no ill-effects, and Michael needed no babysitting whilst the amok was running upfront.
The lack of a seventh man didn’t seem to hinder us much, and the balance of the side against such lower opposition was always the right side of Jenga. In fact, had Leo not found the keeper in scintillating form for his shots, and seemingly his shots alone, this could and should’ve been an absolute Manson massacre.
The game ended with a satisfactory 12-7 scoreline, keeping the Mollys well positioned in the upper echelons of the table, but with later kick-offs to come, expect the Molly Maguires B-team to be unleashed on an unexpecting league.
Final Score: 12-7
Goal scorers: Gareth 4, Nathan 6, Michael 2
Match ratings: Matt 6, Steve 7, Leo7, Gareth 8, Nathan 8, Michael 8
Match ratings: Matt 6, Steve 7, Leo7, Gareth 8, Nathan 8, Michael 8
Man of the Match: Michael
Wednesday, 15 August 2007
Match 1 Season 3 vs. Hank & Clive
Date: 15/8/07 Time: 21:15
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 12.Aneel
“There goes another moment. Just wrap it up, we own it. The night’s a skill, we hone it”
The opening paragraph. It sets the tone, the theme, the thread. The absolutely most essential part of any Lungboy match report. Which I’ve just completely wasted.
With the team still enraptured with talk of last week’s game – from Matt’s controversial overlookedness as man of the match by this report author, to everything about Jon’s injury, a fanciful farce from beginning to end, it was almost unnoticed that the gaffer had successfully secured the services of a full squad, with Dean and Aneel back for a consecutive night game, like vampiric streetwalkers. The added bonus of Robbie’s cheerleader appearance in full Molly regalia, ready to step into the breach if necessary, was more boost to a suffering squad, with Steve also set to roll out the barrel once again, next week.
First game of the new campaign and the return of a familiar foe. For them. Adam “Animal” Langrish.* The opposition must’ve been wetting their kecks at the sight of the quaffed one lumbering around in the warm-up - still smarting from the pinch marks, and stretchy shirts, of his pushing and pulling style of consequential defending. Notwithstanding that, Hank & Clive had seemingly metamorphosised from League 1 whipping cream boys with a cherry on top, to cherry-busting whip-loving sadists with a new found belief, thanks it seem, to a last week only win; a reliance on a short-stop speed merc with a bullet drizzling right foot; a new keeper; and a spot of verbal aggression.
The first few minutes were full of poking and prodding, each team trying to find the vital nerve to paralyse the opposition, but it was H&C that finally drew first blood, a pacey shot going wide found Leo’s leg in its way, catapulting it’s trajectory goalward, leaving Matt stranded, in what, in real comparatory terms is a very small area to cover.
On some sub-conscious level we had to have been playing shit for a reason, that first half. Unable to mirror and counter-act the opposition’s shape, because they had none, we looked like four outfield individuals doing whatever we damned well please with the ball, wherever we were on the pitch. With Leo anchored as sweeper, it let loose our more skilful players, with a free licence to run with the ball, Aneel, Nathan and Gareth frequently attempting to bust through layers of players.
However, now on the receiving end of counter attacks and directly troubled by their pacey little man, shots were arcing at Matt from the wings, like tracer bullets – pace and precision cutting through defenders and keeper alike.
The Mollys were making incredibly hard work of it. The simple pass and move and move and pass tactic of our previous encounter was lost to excessive holding-on of the ball, like a demented rugby league game – carry the ball forward, get fouled, move the ball on again, get fouled. Thankfully H&C are not the greatest team in the tackle, and the usual bait and switch was allowing Nathan to score a family feast bucketload of some of the most fluke-assisted goals this side of a Dubious Goals panel. Gareth had also found his shooting boots, scoring the more prestigious goals of the partnership, including a goal of the match wave-riding assault down the right wing before lashing home.
Yet for all our bluster upfront, the marking and covering was as haphazard as schoolboys chasing after the tennis ball in the playground. Frequently double-teaming on the more skilled opposition, and that was before Adam started to plow into the melee looking for a foot to accidently catch, ultimately left canyons of space on the edge of D for undisturbed wank shots at Matt (I hasten to add whilst Leo was off the pitch). It was luck that got us one goal ahead from a losing position at halftime, and it was their kick-out frustration that kept us there.
I’m gonna lay this mutha-funsting report to bed now, even though it reeks of sub-standard amateurness by my own high standards. It’s been an absolute bane for the last two weeks, and quite frankly I’m sick of it. Shit, I gotta another two reports to write before Wednesday? Who do I have to sleep with around here to get a better deal?
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 12.Aneel
“There goes another moment. Just wrap it up, we own it. The night’s a skill, we hone it”
The opening paragraph. It sets the tone, the theme, the thread. The absolutely most essential part of any Lungboy match report. Which I’ve just completely wasted.
With the team still enraptured with talk of last week’s game – from Matt’s controversial overlookedness as man of the match by this report author, to everything about Jon’s injury, a fanciful farce from beginning to end, it was almost unnoticed that the gaffer had successfully secured the services of a full squad, with Dean and Aneel back for a consecutive night game, like vampiric streetwalkers. The added bonus of Robbie’s cheerleader appearance in full Molly regalia, ready to step into the breach if necessary, was more boost to a suffering squad, with Steve also set to roll out the barrel once again, next week.
First game of the new campaign and the return of a familiar foe. For them. Adam “Animal” Langrish.* The opposition must’ve been wetting their kecks at the sight of the quaffed one lumbering around in the warm-up - still smarting from the pinch marks, and stretchy shirts, of his pushing and pulling style of consequential defending. Notwithstanding that, Hank & Clive had seemingly metamorphosised from League 1 whipping cream boys with a cherry on top, to cherry-busting whip-loving sadists with a new found belief, thanks it seem, to a last week only win; a reliance on a short-stop speed merc with a bullet drizzling right foot; a new keeper; and a spot of verbal aggression.
The first few minutes were full of poking and prodding, each team trying to find the vital nerve to paralyse the opposition, but it was H&C that finally drew first blood, a pacey shot going wide found Leo’s leg in its way, catapulting it’s trajectory goalward, leaving Matt stranded, in what, in real comparatory terms is a very small area to cover.
On some sub-conscious level we had to have been playing shit for a reason, that first half. Unable to mirror and counter-act the opposition’s shape, because they had none, we looked like four outfield individuals doing whatever we damned well please with the ball, wherever we were on the pitch. With Leo anchored as sweeper, it let loose our more skilful players, with a free licence to run with the ball, Aneel, Nathan and Gareth frequently attempting to bust through layers of players.
However, now on the receiving end of counter attacks and directly troubled by their pacey little man, shots were arcing at Matt from the wings, like tracer bullets – pace and precision cutting through defenders and keeper alike.
The Mollys were making incredibly hard work of it. The simple pass and move and move and pass tactic of our previous encounter was lost to excessive holding-on of the ball, like a demented rugby league game – carry the ball forward, get fouled, move the ball on again, get fouled. Thankfully H&C are not the greatest team in the tackle, and the usual bait and switch was allowing Nathan to score a family feast bucketload of some of the most fluke-assisted goals this side of a Dubious Goals panel. Gareth had also found his shooting boots, scoring the more prestigious goals of the partnership, including a goal of the match wave-riding assault down the right wing before lashing home.
Yet for all our bluster upfront, the marking and covering was as haphazard as schoolboys chasing after the tennis ball in the playground. Frequently double-teaming on the more skilled opposition, and that was before Adam started to plow into the melee looking for a foot to accidently catch, ultimately left canyons of space on the edge of D for undisturbed wank shots at Matt (I hasten to add whilst Leo was off the pitch). It was luck that got us one goal ahead from a losing position at halftime, and it was their kick-out frustration that kept us there.
I’m gonna lay this mutha-funsting report to bed now, even though it reeks of sub-standard amateurness by my own high standards. It’s been an absolute bane for the last two weeks, and quite frankly I’m sick of it. Shit, I gotta another two reports to write before Wednesday? Who do I have to sleep with around here to get a better deal?
Final Score: 10-9
Goal Scorers: Nathan 4, Gareth 5, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 7, Leo 7, Dean 7, Gareth 7, Nathan 7, Adam 7, Aneel 7
*As people are aware, I’m happy stealing jokes and observations from fellow players to pad out match reports. Journalist first, storymaker second. But I still prefer “lummox”.
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
Match 14 - Season 2 (summer)
Match 14 vs. The Vigilantes 8/8/07 21:15
LOST 5-10
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 8.Jon 9.Gareth 15.Aneel
LOST 5-10
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 8.Jon 9.Gareth 15.Aneel
“It’s a cruel, cruel summer, leaving me here on my own. It’s a cruel, cruel summer, now you’re gone.”
It’s been a difficult, testing second season. A season derided from the start with an undeserved and unwelcome promotion into League 1. A season that started like Superman – The Movie, improved with added Zod, and ended with the bummest note of Richard Pryor stealing virtual cents, and a missile attack sequence powered by a Sega Megadrive*.
The squad took a real Barton of a beating. There was the permanent retirement of the Sheriff and the Turk; Dean “The Hatman” Hatton limited to late night cameos, like boobs on Bravo; and Steve missing the season’s second half through senile dementia. Don, Aneel, and Adam made significant contributions, with no one being a fringe player – only Gareth (and Matt) showed anything like consistent and consecutive appearances. It wasn’t all boo-hoo. Nobby made a solid man-of-the-match winning return to action, and Mark provided plenty of column inch ammunition as the latest recipient of the Cluff Golden Wank Rag Award.
With the team conceding 18 goals on three occasions, and only 2 real victories (and a draw) to show for their troubles, the thrill of next season against inferior League 2 opposition stirs in the loins.
Having previously upstaged Derren Brown’s goatee by predicting Nobby’s availability the previous week, Matt outdoes himself again this week, with the memory of a dead elephant and the deniability of Barrymore, by naming a known-to-be-injured Nobby in the squad. Another scoop from the 3am Girls.
So another six man line-up faced/off against an unbeaten, but not unbeatable, Vigilantes side. A six man line-up that did themselves the utmost credit, until two injuries cut the heel tendons from under them with five minutes to go.
Right from the get go, the Mollys were under pressure, but as is their want, the team play best against better skilled teams when under the cosh. With the opposition having the fat kid’s share of the possession cake, it was up to the Vigilantes to create the space, to create the shooting opportunities, and then for the Mollys to seize on any fuck-up, any lucky break, and to counter-attack with ruthless aggression.
Not quite man-marking, not quite zonal, this was still the most combative, disciplined, tactically sound display the Mollys have put on for some time. With Leo operating as sweeper in the final third of the pitch relentlessly getting blocks in on the opposition shooting, the attacking quartet of Jon, Dean, Aneel, and Gareth were having to work their proverbial nutsacks off, in not only going forward to attack, but having to weigh in with challenges in the middle third, and track-back down the wings.
This constant baby-sitting forced the Vigilantes to take long-range pot-shots, or tight angled whips across the D that Matt was making look better than actual, with his over-exuberant one-for-the-photo-album saving. Still Matt’s efficient keeping, and the team’s spoiler tactics were having the desired psychological effect on the opposition’s mistaken belief that their victory was as inevitable as death, taxes, and another series of My Family…..
Rudimentary whinging at the referee, mixed with incessant hack and slash as the opposition followed their coach’s tactics to attack, attack, attack, failed to divert the Mollys from the path of enfightenment, as the team cut swathes across the pitch, shadowing their younger counterparts, like, eh…….shadows. However this was no parking the team bus in the goal (although we did have the bicycle rack there), as (Jason) bourne out by the shock half-time score. Listening to our amnesiac gaffa might have you believing we were leading by 10 goals, but this result wasn’t grown from the fertile imagination of bull manure.
Our chances may have been fewer, but we were making the most of them. Firstly, Aneel snatched a great on-the-D short range poke, that had the Vigilantes bawling into their mushed up baby rusks about the unfairness of it all, as the ref slapped down their protestations of “inside the area”. Aneel would go on to score another, but I didn’t see it – I was too busy massaging my groinal attachment awake, having used it to block a shot – hardly the same as deactivating a laser beam with it, but sacrificial nonetheless. With Gareth rounding off the scoring with a typical right wing drill, the Mollys found themselves 3-2 up at half-time.
As those survivors of the last clash against the Vigies were at constant pains to point out, a similar scenario had manifested itself last time out, with the Mollys never being outclassed, and it was only the usual second half collapse through fatigue that saw them lose 4-11. This time, could the team hold it together? Oh shit, did the ‘LOST 5-10’ at the top of the report spoil the cliffhanging surprise?
You can only imagine the half-time team talk from the Vigilantes’ notepad-carrying coach – probably full of bullspit about “their keeper keeping them in it” (a complete disservice to the total defensive framework in front of Matt). And just to prove the point, in the second half, Matt let in a soft close range shot through his legs as he failed to sit down quick enough, and a long range punt that got slowed down twice by deflections off Leo and Aneel – how much more edge do you want taken off?
In the outfield, there were still mind-boggling attempts to fashion our own chances, Aneel superbly pulling off some link up play with Gareth to thread him a score, and Dean and Leo spectacularly failing to do similar, as the Mollys trailed 6-5, but far from out of the winning equation. Jon was running the central hub, throwing his weight around in smash n’ grabs, but into one particular challenge, he came out of it rupturing his knee again, lying on the ground, in-taking breath, while all those around him looked on with no concern whatsoever. Guess we were all waiting for the barman to finish serving that Magners, and come out with his in need of refill first aid box.
A sarky comment from a Vigilante saw Jon momentarily rise to his foot, as he hobbled toward said perpetrator with clear intent to butt heads, before thinking better of it and rolling away off the pitch in a surreal horizontal pirouette technique. One nail in the Molly coffin, but momentarily with still enough oxygen to potentially one-inch punch our way out of the box, the second nail followed soon after, as Leo pulled up with cramp in both legs simultaneously. With no opportunity to shake it off, the defence was effectively rendered immobile, as the Vigilantes finally created the space to bang shots at Matt, and – he let them in!
A final score defeat of 5 to 10 against a wanky team of arrogant, obsessive shits, who only seemed to lighten up after they had secured the victory, was hardly justice for a professional and inspired first 35 minutes - the positives were evident, but the loss of another squad member long term was a costly negative. You had to wonder if Jon had received better treatment for his knee from the Goals staff, beyond a ramshackle concoction of ice cubes wrapped in a carrier bag, strapped to his knee with sticky tape, and held together by a paperclip, whether we’d have had ice in our consolation Pepsi/s/es and the league tables wouldn’t have fallen off the noticeboard.
And so the League 1 season ended with another casualty of war, another defeat, and a final points tally of 10. It can be but hoped that from this rotting corpse of a season, that genetic material can be saved to create better results and a better season to come. Unlike creating Nuclear Man from a strand of The Man of Steel’s hair, this franchise should only get better.
Goal Scorers: Aneel 3, Gareth 2
Match ratings: Matt 8, Leo 8, Dean 8, Jon 8, Gareth 8, Aneel 8
Man of the Match: Aneel
*I’m keeping it low-brow. I haven’t seen The Godfather Trilogy.
It’s been a difficult, testing second season. A season derided from the start with an undeserved and unwelcome promotion into League 1. A season that started like Superman – The Movie, improved with added Zod, and ended with the bummest note of Richard Pryor stealing virtual cents, and a missile attack sequence powered by a Sega Megadrive*.
The squad took a real Barton of a beating. There was the permanent retirement of the Sheriff and the Turk; Dean “The Hatman” Hatton limited to late night cameos, like boobs on Bravo; and Steve missing the season’s second half through senile dementia. Don, Aneel, and Adam made significant contributions, with no one being a fringe player – only Gareth (and Matt) showed anything like consistent and consecutive appearances. It wasn’t all boo-hoo. Nobby made a solid man-of-the-match winning return to action, and Mark provided plenty of column inch ammunition as the latest recipient of the Cluff Golden Wank Rag Award.
With the team conceding 18 goals on three occasions, and only 2 real victories (and a draw) to show for their troubles, the thrill of next season against inferior League 2 opposition stirs in the loins.
Having previously upstaged Derren Brown’s goatee by predicting Nobby’s availability the previous week, Matt outdoes himself again this week, with the memory of a dead elephant and the deniability of Barrymore, by naming a known-to-be-injured Nobby in the squad. Another scoop from the 3am Girls.
So another six man line-up faced/off against an unbeaten, but not unbeatable, Vigilantes side. A six man line-up that did themselves the utmost credit, until two injuries cut the heel tendons from under them with five minutes to go.
Right from the get go, the Mollys were under pressure, but as is their want, the team play best against better skilled teams when under the cosh. With the opposition having the fat kid’s share of the possession cake, it was up to the Vigilantes to create the space, to create the shooting opportunities, and then for the Mollys to seize on any fuck-up, any lucky break, and to counter-attack with ruthless aggression.
Not quite man-marking, not quite zonal, this was still the most combative, disciplined, tactically sound display the Mollys have put on for some time. With Leo operating as sweeper in the final third of the pitch relentlessly getting blocks in on the opposition shooting, the attacking quartet of Jon, Dean, Aneel, and Gareth were having to work their proverbial nutsacks off, in not only going forward to attack, but having to weigh in with challenges in the middle third, and track-back down the wings.
This constant baby-sitting forced the Vigilantes to take long-range pot-shots, or tight angled whips across the D that Matt was making look better than actual, with his over-exuberant one-for-the-photo-album saving. Still Matt’s efficient keeping, and the team’s spoiler tactics were having the desired psychological effect on the opposition’s mistaken belief that their victory was as inevitable as death, taxes, and another series of My Family…..
Rudimentary whinging at the referee, mixed with incessant hack and slash as the opposition followed their coach’s tactics to attack, attack, attack, failed to divert the Mollys from the path of enfightenment, as the team cut swathes across the pitch, shadowing their younger counterparts, like, eh…….shadows. However this was no parking the team bus in the goal (although we did have the bicycle rack there), as (Jason) bourne out by the shock half-time score. Listening to our amnesiac gaffa might have you believing we were leading by 10 goals, but this result wasn’t grown from the fertile imagination of bull manure.
Our chances may have been fewer, but we were making the most of them. Firstly, Aneel snatched a great on-the-D short range poke, that had the Vigilantes bawling into their mushed up baby rusks about the unfairness of it all, as the ref slapped down their protestations of “inside the area”. Aneel would go on to score another, but I didn’t see it – I was too busy massaging my groinal attachment awake, having used it to block a shot – hardly the same as deactivating a laser beam with it, but sacrificial nonetheless. With Gareth rounding off the scoring with a typical right wing drill, the Mollys found themselves 3-2 up at half-time.
As those survivors of the last clash against the Vigies were at constant pains to point out, a similar scenario had manifested itself last time out, with the Mollys never being outclassed, and it was only the usual second half collapse through fatigue that saw them lose 4-11. This time, could the team hold it together? Oh shit, did the ‘LOST 5-10’ at the top of the report spoil the cliffhanging surprise?
You can only imagine the half-time team talk from the Vigilantes’ notepad-carrying coach – probably full of bullspit about “their keeper keeping them in it” (a complete disservice to the total defensive framework in front of Matt). And just to prove the point, in the second half, Matt let in a soft close range shot through his legs as he failed to sit down quick enough, and a long range punt that got slowed down twice by deflections off Leo and Aneel – how much more edge do you want taken off?
In the outfield, there were still mind-boggling attempts to fashion our own chances, Aneel superbly pulling off some link up play with Gareth to thread him a score, and Dean and Leo spectacularly failing to do similar, as the Mollys trailed 6-5, but far from out of the winning equation. Jon was running the central hub, throwing his weight around in smash n’ grabs, but into one particular challenge, he came out of it rupturing his knee again, lying on the ground, in-taking breath, while all those around him looked on with no concern whatsoever. Guess we were all waiting for the barman to finish serving that Magners, and come out with his in need of refill first aid box.
A sarky comment from a Vigilante saw Jon momentarily rise to his foot, as he hobbled toward said perpetrator with clear intent to butt heads, before thinking better of it and rolling away off the pitch in a surreal horizontal pirouette technique. One nail in the Molly coffin, but momentarily with still enough oxygen to potentially one-inch punch our way out of the box, the second nail followed soon after, as Leo pulled up with cramp in both legs simultaneously. With no opportunity to shake it off, the defence was effectively rendered immobile, as the Vigilantes finally created the space to bang shots at Matt, and – he let them in!
A final score defeat of 5 to 10 against a wanky team of arrogant, obsessive shits, who only seemed to lighten up after they had secured the victory, was hardly justice for a professional and inspired first 35 minutes - the positives were evident, but the loss of another squad member long term was a costly negative. You had to wonder if Jon had received better treatment for his knee from the Goals staff, beyond a ramshackle concoction of ice cubes wrapped in a carrier bag, strapped to his knee with sticky tape, and held together by a paperclip, whether we’d have had ice in our consolation Pepsi/s/es and the league tables wouldn’t have fallen off the noticeboard.
And so the League 1 season ended with another casualty of war, another defeat, and a final points tally of 10. It can be but hoped that from this rotting corpse of a season, that genetic material can be saved to create better results and a better season to come. Unlike creating Nuclear Man from a strand of The Man of Steel’s hair, this franchise should only get better.
Goal Scorers: Aneel 3, Gareth 2
Match ratings: Matt 8, Leo 8, Dean 8, Jon 8, Gareth 8, Aneel 8
Man of the Match: Aneel
*I’m keeping it low-brow. I haven’t seen The Godfather Trilogy.
Saturday, 4 August 2007
Match 13 - Season 2 (summer)
MATCH 13 vs. Jason’s Helmets 1/8/07 20:30
LOST 5-11
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 8.Jon 9.Gareth 14.Nobby
“Strong as I am, there’s something ‘bout this thing that scares me”
So I’m having technical problems with my broadband at the moment, which means I can’t check to see if loopylottolove.com has sent me another email about g_girl4400 wanting to meet me, in a dating agency I sure as hell don’t remember signing up for. I can’t check to see if there’s an increase of people watching the Molly Maguires dicking about through the medium of YouTube. I can’t be perturbed by leeching weirdos I thought I’d burnt off a long time ago, tracking me down via the voyeur’s wet dream Facebook.
When your arms and legs have effectively been cut off, and you’re rolling down a collapsed bridge strapped to an office chair, you learn to appreciate the communal spirit afforded by such gatherings as the Mollys versus whoever. Yeah, at least I’m getting some fresh air - I’ll die on impact, but what a thrill-rush getting there. You learn to appreciate the succinct leering at the touchline totty of other teams. You learn to appreciate the stolen moments of Nintendo geek love conversation. You learn to appreciate the unbridled ability to shout live at Matt’s shitty fumble-keeping instead of insipid virtual reality hugging and sending of pixellated gifts. Watching is no substitute for matching <yeah, I know, pretty weak>. Clicking is no substitute for kicking <much better>.
There was some suggestion pre-match of this being a return to the classic line-up of old, and that was even before Nathan’s name dropped off the starting line-up, with the same disbelief of my jaw dropping at the sight of Prime uppercutting through Bonecrusher’s face to pop his eyeball out. This was a Generation 1 line-up*, and sure, we could’ve done with another action figure to complement the Care Bears we had with limited poseableness in midfield, but ebay’s inaccessible offline too.
In much the same vein as the legendary Roystone Rangers in previous seasons, the Helmets are the most accurate indicator of our team’s worth. At the top of our game, we twist-jerk them and their ridiculous name into a ceiling high affirmation of our virility. At our worst, we play with Mark in goal. But at least, we had a team today. With last week’s late cancellation, due to only a trio of the squad available, £30 worth of the kitty was flushed away like a batch of Umbro white tops being relegated to ….umm, …dunno, haven’t seen one of them in years.
Gone are the hopes and dreams of SoccerSportsSoccer lackey Gareth, and his wish for a decent team kit. Gone are the hopes and dreams of curry monster Jon, and his wish for an evening to rival the Christmas Curry Past (how did the fuck we get at least ten Molly personnel in the same place at the same time?) With seasonal registration costing more over three months, than Television X over the same period, jokes about kitty and pussy are just too easy.
With the Mollys being spared the ignominy of (losing in) the orange bibs, they faced off against the team that had knuckle-sandwiched them 18-1 last time out. And whilst the return of Dean added a sophisticated quality to the hairstyles on display, without another dedicated frontman to slipstream with Gareth, or another dedicated defender to unshackle Leo, the team played like a classic Yes song being violated by a disco beat.
Whilst the Mollys could be proud of opening the scoring, the opposition’s reply was swift, and it became soon evident that our one-dimensional play was flatter than an OK! photospread of Kate Moss. Whilst the Helmets attacked in ruthless triumvirates, creating shooting angles that the gaffa’s Worzel Gummidge hands were struggling to contain, the Mollys’ tactic of giving it to Gareth, and hoping he could create chances, was as predictable as another shit game for Lampard.
Whilst 50-50 challenges were being won, the lack of forward movement or a controlled touch was hampering our attacking play. Jon’s box-to-box running wasn’t entirely successful this time out, having to actually bring the ball forward, rather than space running for the killer pass. Nobby continued to play his now patented Samson-lite ball-chasing game all over the pitch, and Dean struggled to get hold of the ball, let alone do anything damaging with it, which left Leo defending way too deep, as the opposition continually attacked without respite, returning the ball into our half with the inevitability of foot and mouth.
With Matt giving the team a dressing down at half-time with all the masculinity and point of reference of Gok Wan – criticising the team’s lack of sound (the quietest we’d been for some time) and communication – boy, Jon must’ve been tired, we barely did much better for the next twenty minutes.
Gareth scored a superb goal from a superber throw out clearance from Matt, and whilst this was generally indicative of Matt’s better than usual possession play, unable to keep the opposition busy at the other end, merely delayed further goals conceded. Even Don had decided that the time was now right to call it day and contribute as much to the team as Beckham does to his.
Jon was clearly getting his Aussie and English rules confused as he walloped two separate shots clear into the night sky, the ball silhouetted against the moon like a retarded Bat-signal. Their keeper was making the odd save or two, but our shooting was largely akin to a Harrier Jump jet equipped with lock-on missiles and gun, seemingly unable to hit a massive articulated lorry with a yippee-kay-yay mo-fo driving it.
The Helmets had crept to a minimum safe distance, long before we knew how to hit the button, and this classic line-up ultimately left a disappointed taste in the mouth as much as watching He-Man again, whilst sucking on a Freezepop. If it wasn’t for the fact that Goals is one of the few places that still sell Golden Wonder fucking Cheese and Onion crisps (the greatest crisps in the world), I’d doubt my own ability to deliver the defensive goods like I once did, clinging to those of past that still survive the present.
I went a bit off tangent there, but I always was good at maths (pun). Of course, I never took A-level psychology (I went to a real school, and had teachers who didn’t teach from a Letts guide), but you felt somewhere in the back of the team’s mind, the effort wasn’t at full capacity, the niggling thought of this being a relegation survivor decider perhaps holding back the passion, holding back Leo’s screeching abuse at Matt; Jon’s howling abuse at the referee; Don’s positional abuse at Nobby; Dean’s mild miffiness. With a defeat cementing our place in the bottom two, and the dreams of relegation to come tingling on the lobe, this match perhaps wasn’t the benchmark I had made it out to be.
Now that I’ve managed to post the last of this report, it seems my internet connection is getting better, so I could start ‘researching’ for that comedy TV programme I’m writing; I could check the fixture list for when Beattie’s gonna score the winner against his old club, having received delicious verbal abuse throughout the match; or I could go outside, kick a ball against the wall, whilst whistling the theme to Thundercats. It’s raining outside, but I like the rain.
Goal scorers: Gareth 4, Nobby 1
Match ratings: Matt 6, Leo 6, Dean 6, Jon 6, Gareth 7, Nobby 6
Man of the match: Gareth
*If you understand this reference, marry me.
LOST 5-11
1.Matt (c) 5.Leo 7.Dean 8.Jon 9.Gareth 14.Nobby
“Strong as I am, there’s something ‘bout this thing that scares me”
So I’m having technical problems with my broadband at the moment, which means I can’t check to see if loopylottolove.com has sent me another email about g_girl4400 wanting to meet me, in a dating agency I sure as hell don’t remember signing up for. I can’t check to see if there’s an increase of people watching the Molly Maguires dicking about through the medium of YouTube. I can’t be perturbed by leeching weirdos I thought I’d burnt off a long time ago, tracking me down via the voyeur’s wet dream Facebook.
When your arms and legs have effectively been cut off, and you’re rolling down a collapsed bridge strapped to an office chair, you learn to appreciate the communal spirit afforded by such gatherings as the Mollys versus whoever. Yeah, at least I’m getting some fresh air - I’ll die on impact, but what a thrill-rush getting there. You learn to appreciate the succinct leering at the touchline totty of other teams. You learn to appreciate the stolen moments of Nintendo geek love conversation. You learn to appreciate the unbridled ability to shout live at Matt’s shitty fumble-keeping instead of insipid virtual reality hugging and sending of pixellated gifts. Watching is no substitute for matching <yeah, I know, pretty weak>. Clicking is no substitute for kicking <much better>.
There was some suggestion pre-match of this being a return to the classic line-up of old, and that was even before Nathan’s name dropped off the starting line-up, with the same disbelief of my jaw dropping at the sight of Prime uppercutting through Bonecrusher’s face to pop his eyeball out. This was a Generation 1 line-up*, and sure, we could’ve done with another action figure to complement the Care Bears we had with limited poseableness in midfield, but ebay’s inaccessible offline too.
In much the same vein as the legendary Roystone Rangers in previous seasons, the Helmets are the most accurate indicator of our team’s worth. At the top of our game, we twist-jerk them and their ridiculous name into a ceiling high affirmation of our virility. At our worst, we play with Mark in goal. But at least, we had a team today. With last week’s late cancellation, due to only a trio of the squad available, £30 worth of the kitty was flushed away like a batch of Umbro white tops being relegated to ….umm, …dunno, haven’t seen one of them in years.
Gone are the hopes and dreams of SoccerSportsSoccer lackey Gareth, and his wish for a decent team kit. Gone are the hopes and dreams of curry monster Jon, and his wish for an evening to rival the Christmas Curry Past (how did the fuck we get at least ten Molly personnel in the same place at the same time?) With seasonal registration costing more over three months, than Television X over the same period, jokes about kitty and pussy are just too easy.
With the Mollys being spared the ignominy of (losing in) the orange bibs, they faced off against the team that had knuckle-sandwiched them 18-1 last time out. And whilst the return of Dean added a sophisticated quality to the hairstyles on display, without another dedicated frontman to slipstream with Gareth, or another dedicated defender to unshackle Leo, the team played like a classic Yes song being violated by a disco beat.
Whilst the Mollys could be proud of opening the scoring, the opposition’s reply was swift, and it became soon evident that our one-dimensional play was flatter than an OK! photospread of Kate Moss. Whilst the Helmets attacked in ruthless triumvirates, creating shooting angles that the gaffa’s Worzel Gummidge hands were struggling to contain, the Mollys’ tactic of giving it to Gareth, and hoping he could create chances, was as predictable as another shit game for Lampard.
Whilst 50-50 challenges were being won, the lack of forward movement or a controlled touch was hampering our attacking play. Jon’s box-to-box running wasn’t entirely successful this time out, having to actually bring the ball forward, rather than space running for the killer pass. Nobby continued to play his now patented Samson-lite ball-chasing game all over the pitch, and Dean struggled to get hold of the ball, let alone do anything damaging with it, which left Leo defending way too deep, as the opposition continually attacked without respite, returning the ball into our half with the inevitability of foot and mouth.
With Matt giving the team a dressing down at half-time with all the masculinity and point of reference of Gok Wan – criticising the team’s lack of sound (the quietest we’d been for some time) and communication – boy, Jon must’ve been tired, we barely did much better for the next twenty minutes.
Gareth scored a superb goal from a superber throw out clearance from Matt, and whilst this was generally indicative of Matt’s better than usual possession play, unable to keep the opposition busy at the other end, merely delayed further goals conceded. Even Don had decided that the time was now right to call it day and contribute as much to the team as Beckham does to his.
Jon was clearly getting his Aussie and English rules confused as he walloped two separate shots clear into the night sky, the ball silhouetted against the moon like a retarded Bat-signal. Their keeper was making the odd save or two, but our shooting was largely akin to a Harrier Jump jet equipped with lock-on missiles and gun, seemingly unable to hit a massive articulated lorry with a yippee-kay-yay mo-fo driving it.
The Helmets had crept to a minimum safe distance, long before we knew how to hit the button, and this classic line-up ultimately left a disappointed taste in the mouth as much as watching He-Man again, whilst sucking on a Freezepop. If it wasn’t for the fact that Goals is one of the few places that still sell Golden Wonder fucking Cheese and Onion crisps (the greatest crisps in the world), I’d doubt my own ability to deliver the defensive goods like I once did, clinging to those of past that still survive the present.
I went a bit off tangent there, but I always was good at maths (pun). Of course, I never took A-level psychology (I went to a real school, and had teachers who didn’t teach from a Letts guide), but you felt somewhere in the back of the team’s mind, the effort wasn’t at full capacity, the niggling thought of this being a relegation survivor decider perhaps holding back the passion, holding back Leo’s screeching abuse at Matt; Jon’s howling abuse at the referee; Don’s positional abuse at Nobby; Dean’s mild miffiness. With a defeat cementing our place in the bottom two, and the dreams of relegation to come tingling on the lobe, this match perhaps wasn’t the benchmark I had made it out to be.
Now that I’ve managed to post the last of this report, it seems my internet connection is getting better, so I could start ‘researching’ for that comedy TV programme I’m writing; I could check the fixture list for when Beattie’s gonna score the winner against his old club, having received delicious verbal abuse throughout the match; or I could go outside, kick a ball against the wall, whilst whistling the theme to Thundercats. It’s raining outside, but I like the rain.
Goal scorers: Gareth 4, Nobby 1
Match ratings: Matt 6, Leo 6, Dean 6, Jon 6, Gareth 7, Nobby 6
Man of the match: Gareth
*If you understand this reference, marry me.
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