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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