(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
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
No comments:
Post a Comment