Matches 11 + 12 Season 3 vs. Team Gumtree + The Granite

A GRINDHOUSE DOUBLE FEATURE
Date: 24/10/07 Time: 19:45
Line-Up: 1.Matt (c) 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam 14.Michael

Final Score: 8-14
Goal Scorers: Gareth 3, Nathan 4, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 7, Steve 7, Leo 7, Gareth 7 , Nathan 7, Adam 7, Michael 7

Date: 31/10/07 Time: 20:30
Line-Up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 7.Dean 10.Nathan 11.Adam

Final Score: 5-10
Goals Scorers: Nathan 5
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Nobby 6, Steve's new boots 5, Leo 6, Dean 6, Nathan 7, Adam 6
Man of The Match: Nathan

“You are the money maker. She is yours for the taking. You know you wanna make her. Show her your money maker”

Horror. The theme of this report is horror. In the spirit of the season (which will be long over by the time this gets published) I will fly high the concept without using such phrases as ‘horror show’ or ‘blood bath’. I know some would prefer talk of trains, but I’ll try to marry horror and football together with the same tenuous link that Michael Jackson has with his kids, the same happy result as Leslie Fishlips and Lee Chapman.

When we think of horror we think of ripped open heads, flayed skin, demonic clowns, another fricking Saw movie. Our minds are awash with moving imagery of vampires, cenobites, walking undead. One doesn’t immediately think of mass graves, paedophilia, gas chambers, and serial killers. Real horror, not jumped up Hallowe’en hoodoo, which only appeals to the morons who still think Bod is cool, and listen to music by Anal C*nt. So from real human atrocities, we segue neatly into real football atrocities. Tenuous, oh yeah.

Match 11 against Team Gumtree was a chance to avenge the previous published self-inflicted amputation of foot via shotgun blast, when a scintillating first half of metaphorical casual topless sex, gave way to a horror bath of a blood show second half slaughter fest (again, metaphorical). Match 12 against The Granite was another opportunity to attack melee against one of the lower class of human species, like people under the stairs.

But as Death Proof was lots of sexy visuals without enough bloodletting, and Planet Terror was chaotic enthusiasm without gore control, so matches 11 and 12 were similarly dissimilar, but still frightening.

The Molly line-up for the game against Gumtree looked reasonably balanced, with four defenders capable of marauding forward to support the Corey twins upfront. This game was all about the attacking qualities of the sides - leave the shambolic defending falling from the balcony into an unfortunately placed glass table.

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that, if Steve is in the starting line-up of 5 for a match, we will lose. A crusty black-spotted pirate curse, or perhaps something knows what you did last world war, burying (alive) someone at sea? Back in season four of ’05, Steve played 8 games, and we lost them all, and back then he was scoring. Nowadays, it’s not an exaggeration to suggest that Steve might just be the killer amongst us, the ringer within. And it didn’t take long for Steve to suffer the hex, being smashed through the foot by a weapon-assisted opposition boot, like a machete through bone. Thankfully the injury wasn’t free-carriage-clock-insurance bad, but would subsequently prompt a boot change, but more on this stunning cliffhanger later.

There was less blocking going on from us, more standing off from us, and more watching from us as precision driven nail gun long range speed shots from the opposition were railed through Matt into goal. On the unrated flipside, the same space being afforded to the opposition was being afforded to our Mickey and Mallory to carve axe wounds into their back line. This is an opposition who are incredibly poor tacklers, who stand off our front men, when they have backs to goal, and who aren’t major hack and slash merchants. Steve and Matt might disagree, especially as Matt got another wet ball kick-slapped to his groin from the blade runner, long after the whistle had gone, but that prick was just one cock amongst a generally good spirited team, who liked to attack old men and helpless keepers.

When Nathan and Gareth linked up successfully, there was some nice intricate catherine wheel sparks flying, but when the defence managed to link up with the attack, there were some h-bomb mega-focker rockets flying. Leo ran onto a neat parry from Nathan down the right wing to two-touch vaporise a low tight shot in off the far post, and the back line conspired to play a neat triangle of passing possession that included the lummox, with Adam successfully shifting the ball toward a team mate, as Gareth finished the sweet-ass move.

Steve, Adam and Michael continued to lap at the dry blood on the ceiling of goal-scoring success, with only Michael’s toe-pokes of terror threatening – threatening like a razor blade in a rotten apple. But it’s indicative of this season’s haplessness, that there’s been the over-reliance on Nathan and Gareth’s goal-scoring, never better illustrated than in the chances blown in the subsequent game, but more on this stunning cliffhanger later. Only Leo has threatened the duoploy, and by threatened I mean scored over two dozen goals less.

Still Nathan proceeded to run half the pitch, the gauntlet, himself and the ball through a swath of shitty tackling to crown off another stunning goal of the match solo effort. Remember it when it worked (remember when Krueger was actually scary), because he’d attempt such Maradona-like running over thirty times the following week, and ended up like looking like Madonna wading through pig-shit (ended up scary as Scissorhands).

The match was always close, but with just a few minutes to go, and the Mollys down by just two, we just seemed to cave in and get ripped apart in some clever metaphorically horror-related way. And so Match 11 ended 8-15. There was enough treats to suggest we could be cute enough to get the door open for some free sweets, but not enough trick to distract them long enough to nip round the back and steal their TV.

The match against The Granite the following week was just bizarre, in a David Lynch dream sequence kind of way. With Gareth’s nose infested with bacteria, it was left to Nathan to shoulder the goal-scoring burden, although he seemed intent on single-handedly dragging Dean and Nobby around with him, like Myers drags corpses.

We got shanked and gutted before the title credits even had a chance to roll, conceding three in half the time. It wasn’t entirely clear if Steve had bought his new Nike Astroturf footwear from a mythical Chinaman, and ignored the three warnings, but his initial passing endeavours were suicidally inept, and not likely to trouble Ronaldinho for commercial endorsements.

Further bloodshed at the back, as a braindead backpass by Adam, from Matt’s short throwout, saw the Mollys concede the simplest of punished penalties. And with no settled positions at the back – Leo flitting in and out of the defence like subliminal devil shots, and with the same potency – the backside of the Mollys looked thoroughly anally probed.

Upfront was hardly the face of industry, light and magic either. With Nathan seemingly determined to beat every opposite man twice over, and then once again, and failing dozens of time, the opposition took on an almost supernatural presence. Nathan tried every trick in his foot arsenal, as he metaphorically stabbed, shot, and slashed away at the opposing army of darkness, but frequently found himself crowded out, turned over and buried under bodies.

Of course had he tried recruiting Dean or Nobby to the crusade, to gang up on the bogeyman, things may have had a sequel-worthy ending. Every survival horror enthusiast knows it’s always the spunky girl (aka Dean) and the asexual best friend (aka Nobby) that finish the film against the odds – not the sports jock.

That’s not to say it was all bad. For reasons that could only be put down to their misplaced shooting, the opposition were only 6-4 up at half-time; Nathan having been allowed to escape from his chains on enough occasions to score, before being dragged back to his cell.

Second half was much the same, with even less things worth talking about. Adam made up for his gross error of judgement in the first half, by firstly not panicking when he found himself in the opposition half, and then doing that trademark lumbering shadowing shuffle across the back of an opposing defender, clipping their heels sufficiently enough, for them to resort to passing back to their keeper, and the winning of the penalty. Nathan coolly slotted home the only Molly goal of the second half, and the beast merely stumbled.

With news of Jon’s pretty much ‘stone-dead on a slab’ chances of return, and a tearful permanent retirement of the number 8 shirt, the loss of our only real attacking midfielder was never more keenly felt than in this match, with the link between attack and defence crude. As usual, opposition who seem to take a significant lead against us, always get frustrated when they aren’t slaughtering us, or kicking us when we’re down. The height of disrespect of course was some ‘hope he’s first to die’ jerkoff standing the ball on the D line, in a time wasting exercise, that ranked up there with watching the sequel to the remake of a shit horror film in the first place (you know what you are).

The game finished 10-5, which doesn’t truly reflect the opposition’s dominance, and our inability to string anything approaching a plan together. The kind of horror that keeps you awake at night, if you weren’t so medicated up to eyeballs on Haloperidol, and still feeling the aftershocks of the ECT. A nightmare that The Molly Maguires seem to be forever living.

As Matt threatened to relieve himself of the gaffer tenure, and everyone ignored his pleas for someone to take over, even at the threat of having to sort out their own 'shifts' as our previous gaffer had done before, because grown men can't seem to get their shit together, it reminded me how much I missed Deano's pocket-sized emailed movie reviews. And so in homage, I present my review of Captivity (available now on DVD) - Utterly stupid. The kidnapper pretends to be another captive in order to protect the real female victim, who is so grateful that he puts his life on the line (but doesn't actually rescue her), that she has sex with him, whilst still trapped, still under threat of her face being burnt off, still under the prying eye of the 'kidnapper'. I've heard of the Stockholm Syndrome, and movie sex at ridiculous times - but WHAT THE FUCK?

Match 10 Season 3 vs. Sumo Boys 2

Date: 17/10/07 Time: 19:00

Won 10-0 by default

Opposition now become 'Unassigned'

What the goals website said.......

Putting our feet up in style....

Match 9 Season 3 vs. Just For Football

(DIRECTOR'S CUT)

Date: 10/10/07 Time: 21:15
Line-up: 1.Matt (c) 2.Nobby 4.Steve 5.Leo 9.Gareth 10.Nathan

“Hey, the bulletproof are so resilient, to every fool with an opinion, they never break”

I write this report nearly two weeks late. Because I’ve been recklessly bored. When I get like this, I do undeniably stupid things – knock people off ladders; take upskirt photos; cripple e-mail systems; jump out onto rooftops with no discernable way of getting back in. Without natural highs, you manufacture artificial ones. My mood’s hardly been helped by another Molly default victory, limiting my football adrenaline fix to twice in a month.

Had to make do with the two England national sides doing their best to fill up the smoke-free pubs, and whilst Wilkinson kicks like a mule, Rooney tackles like a donkey, clearly forgetting which code he was playing. A drop kick wide of the posts, and a parried shot straight into an onrushing attacker looked all too familiar. An artificial low. Yet an expected low.

The Mollys would never use a plastic pitch, the brisk cold weather or a referee with video replay facilities as an excuse for another soppy defeat. We’d blame ringers, shit passing and a referee without video replay facilities. I was looking over my report when we last played these cowboys, and my description of the opposition bares only the vaguest resemblance to the group of disparate individuals we were playing against tonight. Our line-up from last time saw only Michael replaced by Nobby, and was hardly unlike Erikkson being replaced by McClaren. Yet there were no running riots from us, no lack of moxy from them. Where was their inadequate keeper; where was their body-odour enamoured spokesman; who were these fuckers?

We conceded early and fast. Seemingly there is space between Matt’s legs, as the ball so discovered, and the Mollys fell immediately onto their backside in a macrocosm echo, as the opposition scored with us rough twice more. The opposition were playing with rhythm, like a misdiagnosed aneurysm; they played with pace, like an artificially assisted heart; they played with guile, like Van Damme in Street Fighter The Movie.

You couldn’t shake the unnatural feeling that Just For Football had hired a hooker (rugby reference) to artificially assist them in knocking one out up against us. If the black sheep quality of the ringer’s football shirt wasn’t unglaring enough amongst the JFF white, then his over-elaborate skills, and DVD (Dickish, Very Dickish) solo commentary was surely something even Don would’ve remembered before. In twin unison with another flash bastard, who seemed intent in going to war (not real war, more like West Side Story poncing) ripping the Mollys several new assholes, as the tricks and flicks decimated what should’ve been an assured Molly’s defence.

With Steve initially confused by the seemingly additional Molly blues on the pitch (the ref and the ringer) [insert your own gay pub joke here] the only successful passing out of defence he could muster would’ve been being knocked unconscious by any of the thunderous shots being slammed our way.

We played too deep, with no outlet once we had any vague notion of playing it out of our half. Matt’s distribution was worse than atrocious (btrocious), and contributed to overall possession percentage being in the low 30s, like all the best bachelors. It would be a glaring omission if I failed to mention that thing with Matt and the ball and whatever. The opposition attacked without fear, held up the ball well, allowing all four of their outfield to occupy our frontmen, fitter than Jessica Biel in sweatpants.

Leo and Nobby were stuck between two stools, neither perched on the defensive edge singing Westlife covers, nor swinging the fuckers above their heads through attacking pub windows. The support to the frontmen was poor, forcing Gareth to drop back deeper than ever, and even Nathan prodded and poked away at his own natural eye for the counter-attack.

We ran them pretty close the first half, with only their initial goal thrust separating us, but the second half was pretty much all them. With the referee failing to curb their spoiling tactics, the match descended into a lawless state of referee apathy. Always, always we seem to come up against wankers who piss all over the rule book, then bitch like hell when you try to stuff said urine-soaked rulebook down their throats. Responding with some arrogant showboating, an attempted elbow into Leo's face that missed by a cuntry mile, and a little verse of keepy-upsy on the edge of the D, that even the flash fucker’s teammates must’ve been secretly throwing mental ‘wanker’ signs at, the game ended with a moral victory for The Molly Maguires.

Not only did it allow a bit of siege-mentality bonding between said team, but beating the league leaders would’ve had unfortunate potential consequences, again not helped by the subsequent default 10-0 victory against the previous top team. Still, I guess moods can only improve. My new video ipod ensures that no longer do I have to rely on social interaction with married women during lunchtime, when I can geek-leak at downloaded video game podcasts. I don’t have to rush home two hours early from work next summer to catch Euro ’08, ‘cause you know, I like to work my contracted hours… (shurely, sum mishtake). And with another Molly match just a day away, I'm ready to do this all again, like a snake eating it’s own tail.

Final Score: 6-11
Goal Scorers: Nathan 4, Gareth 1, Leo 1
Match Ratings: Matt 6, Nobby 5, Steve 5, Leo 5, Gareth 6, Nathan 7

Man of the Match: Nathan

Match 8 Season 3 vs. Hank & Clive

Date: 3/10/07 Time: 20:30
Line-up: 5.Leo (c) 6.Robbie 7.Dean 9.Gareth 10.Nathan 11.Adam

“Made a mistake. I made a mistake. I wear the scars to show my shame. What should I do? What should I do? When I’m the one, hey, to blame”

Ouch. Some few days on from throwing myself around like an epileptic sack of spuds, and the aches are starting to feel more pronounced. I’ve even developed one of those mediocre limps in my right leg and my radial reach has been temporarily reduced. Never again will I criticise our goalkeeping gaffa and his stalwart brilliance between the sticks.

I was talking to myself and trying to recall what the worst pain I had ever suffered was. I don’t remember the circumcision; falling off our bicycle seat’s onto the frame is a rites of passage; the bust lung was more an inconvenience; hockey stick to the face was a temporary stun; and I’ve thwarted my fear of needles.

I guess it boils down to my constant battle against the super flesh-eating eczema, and my dislocated finger, received on my last outing in goal, in a friendly kicking with kids and old people. Ironically, it was my return to goal tonight that inflicted hurt once more. Knowing you are literally the last line of defence, and still get scatter-boomed by fifteen goals is as crushing as it gets. So unlike Given dethroning Harper in the Newcastle C*ntpies goal last weekend, this swap was more akin to swapping Robinson around with James. Ballsups are guaranteed regardless.

Tactics went straight out of the 57th floor window when it became clear that the Molly personnel do not have the cognitive functioning to play in a restricted zonal marking system, that, gawd forbidden, requires tracking back. With Robbie only playing his second game in months, looking like a jellyfish out of water, lining up alongside Adam, with the mobility of a Kia on bricks, this wasn’t a defensive performance for the purist. With Dean upsetting the balance in whichever position he played, and Gareth and Nathan on an attacking see-saw, with neither wanting to push down first, we were in for a world of hurt.

In the weeks leading up to this match, Hank & Clive had proved themselves adept at scoring goals by a post-strike sackful, whilst the Mollys’ defence had easily outclassed their attack. Only half of the previous statement would apply to tonight’s game. With Hank & Clive able to fire shots goal-ward at will, seemingly given limitless space and countless options, their shots either resulted in brilliant goals, hapless goals, stunning outfield blocks, or narrow misses.

Without Steve’s calm comatose passing out or Leo’s more panicky but pacey clearances, the Molly keeper was getting his bluff called too often, and having forgotten how to save shuffle-sideways, with body behind the ball, or to dive without a limp wrist, the goals conceded flowed without let up, as the team went three down in record quick time. On the positive, Leo’s distribution was high on speed, accuracy, and right on an attackers toes, and this route one action was getting us goals from Nathan and Gareth to try and drag the team back in it.

Unfortunately, whilst the front men were risking everything, the link-up play between them and the rest was non-existent, like a bunch of strangers passing thorough a shopping centre, desperately trying to avoid the bib-wearing clipboard wielder. No real surprise the result, given the personnel actually featured more attackers then defenders for the first time in ages.

Half-time saw us 8-5 down, but it could’ve been so much worse. With so many shooting opportunities afforded to the opposition as they won the 50-50s, they had enough shots to at least hit the ball out of the pitch on at least three occasions, and Leo did save a few efforts on goal, and so the advantage of having him in goal, rather than just sodding it and playing him in defence without a keeper, made sense.

The second half continued the continual attack policies of both teams, but the Mollys continued to compound their errors – Robbie and Gareth both losing the ball too soon in front of goal, to leave the keeper out of position for the simple passing shot, and Leo getting a rebound off his back for an own goal. With Robbie passing the ball to the opposition with the frequency of bungs, and Adam passing the ball to the wall, before the opposition picked it up, getting out of our own half was like climbing up the Spinnaker Tower dressed as Spiderman – wearing a football shirt, doesn’t make you a footballer.

Leo could afford to correctly let in an indirect free-kick without touch, but no other real luck was coming as the goals continued to raze past him. Where’s the mad jock to come running onto the pitch, tickle my embarrassed chin and make me collapse like a punched outside Junk nightclub, when you need him?

Nathan scored the ultimate route one goal, as a thunderous Hank & Clive strike rattled off the bar, looped all the way back down the pitch, for the glory-hunting goalhanger to tumble into the net; Gareth scored the most delicious angled thundercrack to get even the opposition applauding; and Dean managed to get on the scoresheet without the need for a surreptitious pen and small downward stroke.

The game finished 11-15. The attackers had got their act together, but the defenders had a disappointing evening, and it’s the divisible line between that continues to plague the Mollys progress. Why can’t we have a pretty face, smart brain, and great curves in one package? And no matter what people say, losing by four goals, and conceding 15 in the process is not close, especially after grand declarations of shutting out over two-thirds of that. Still the result actually drops the team down by just one, into third place, which is still way too close to possible promotion, so perhaps another off-evening would be a welcome respite from all the winning.

The return of the gaffa and Steve should ease the selection process once again, and so Matt can take back his lovely denim purse (complete with hoity-toity Adam’s fee) now that his latest Megabus promotional photoshoot is complete.

Having got to the end of this report, I’ve suddenly realised I was being a little economical with the truth earlier. I have played goal in a competitive match since my finger got caned from its socket. In March, I conceded five in a first half against The Mighty Ducks and was so thoroughly ashamed, I swapped with Aneel for the second. Oh, to only concede five… I also said I’d never criticise Matt again. Fat chance.

Final Score: 11-15
Goal Scorers: Gareth 5, Nathan 5, Dean 1

Match Ratings: Leo 5, Robbie 5, Dean 5, Gareth 6, Nathan 6, Adam 5