21/11/07 9.15pm
Matt, Leo, Dean, Nathan, Adam, Michael
LOST 0-8
In my spare time, when not choking on the ethanol soaked rag that is the burden of being the Mollys’ official PR man and recruitment officer, I like to attend live music gigs, and choke on the stench of dry ice and assholes. Whether it’s getting elbowed in the back and ribs whilst standing at the front of an arena gig with three and a half thousand people trying to meld you into the barrier, or standing on the periphery of a nonsensical circle pit whilst emo teens, desperate for human contact, collide with each other whilst you hope at least one faceplants, it’s all good training. It’s good training to stand your ground, to defend your space, to keep focussed your view, to withstand the buffeting and barging from complete strangers. It’s good training for football matches against the kind of opposition we play against, although I still haven’t quite found a use for skilfully avoiding rubbing my groin area against any women in front of me, in spite of the quite wrongly intoxicating pungent smell of female body odour.
With physical training sorted, the psychological training comes from watching inspirational teams battle the odds. The late kick-off of this brand new Molly season in League One had allowed many of us to soak up the first half of that crucial clash between England and Croatia. Never have my eyes been so violated, and the TV been subjected to such verbal abuse, since my VHS copy of Species II became pieces, after a deserved caught in the middle moment between snap and crack.
It was raining that night - every conceivable god imaginable emptying their pisspots over the edge of the heavens - and standing in front of the wall-mounted TV in Goals, watching the second half of that fateful international encounter, was a welcome respite, even when Fat Frank strolled up to score a penalty without the aid of a deflection, as a result of Defoe’s weighty pocketful pieces of silver causing him to tumble. With our opposition nowhere to be seen, and some genuine concern that Nathan and Adam had crossed county for nothing, we stood there longer, and bore witness to that lanky beanpole edge in the equaliser, and our faith in humanity was restored, the rain eased off, and our ref had bothered to find the opposition.
Such positive frames of mind would soon be hanging crooked, as Legate FC had long been on pitch shooting up, and the delay meant our meaningless warming up was curtailed further. The Molly formation and tactics were equally as worthless. When an old man gets on a bus, you give your seat up for him, you let him sit next to the walking stick sticker. When Steve isn’t around, who’s brave enough to sit in his space, when the bus is empty?
Matt, Leo, Dean, Nathan, Adam, Michael
LOST 0-8
In my spare time, when not choking on the ethanol soaked rag that is the burden of being the Mollys’ official PR man and recruitment officer, I like to attend live music gigs, and choke on the stench of dry ice and assholes. Whether it’s getting elbowed in the back and ribs whilst standing at the front of an arena gig with three and a half thousand people trying to meld you into the barrier, or standing on the periphery of a nonsensical circle pit whilst emo teens, desperate for human contact, collide with each other whilst you hope at least one faceplants, it’s all good training. It’s good training to stand your ground, to defend your space, to keep focussed your view, to withstand the buffeting and barging from complete strangers. It’s good training for football matches against the kind of opposition we play against, although I still haven’t quite found a use for skilfully avoiding rubbing my groin area against any women in front of me, in spite of the quite wrongly intoxicating pungent smell of female body odour.
With physical training sorted, the psychological training comes from watching inspirational teams battle the odds. The late kick-off of this brand new Molly season in League One had allowed many of us to soak up the first half of that crucial clash between England and Croatia. Never have my eyes been so violated, and the TV been subjected to such verbal abuse, since my VHS copy of Species II became pieces, after a deserved caught in the middle moment between snap and crack.
It was raining that night - every conceivable god imaginable emptying their pisspots over the edge of the heavens - and standing in front of the wall-mounted TV in Goals, watching the second half of that fateful international encounter, was a welcome respite, even when Fat Frank strolled up to score a penalty without the aid of a deflection, as a result of Defoe’s weighty pocketful pieces of silver causing him to tumble. With our opposition nowhere to be seen, and some genuine concern that Nathan and Adam had crossed county for nothing, we stood there longer, and bore witness to that lanky beanpole edge in the equaliser, and our faith in humanity was restored, the rain eased off, and our ref had bothered to find the opposition.
Such positive frames of mind would soon be hanging crooked, as Legate FC had long been on pitch shooting up, and the delay meant our meaningless warming up was curtailed further. The Molly formation and tactics were equally as worthless. When an old man gets on a bus, you give your seat up for him, you let him sit next to the walking stick sticker. When Steve isn’t around, who’s brave enough to sit in his space, when the bus is empty?
Due to unforeseen circumstances, the end of this report does not exist.
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