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.
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?
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