Matt, Leo, Gareth, Nathan, Adam, Michael, Mike (jnr.)
WON 20-4
Scorers: Gareth 7, Leo 1, Mike 1, Mike (jnr.) 4, Nathan 7
It had been a long time coming, but true football fans finally rejoiced as the greatest central defender ever to don a West Ham shirt finally shook the monkey from his back – Leo humdinging his first goal in a decade of games. Somewhat less monumental; an actual current West ham player managed to weedle his way into the England first team, and didn’t suck, like lame duck. High fives for the number fives, all round.
Times are a changing, with the Mollys undergoing enough recent overhauls to be classified as another upgraded version. Three new recruits this season, a couple of devastating 20+ wins, half-inching victory fightbacks, and a series of successes on the Molly’s Graveyard prompts many a page turning into the next chapter.
This match had an incestuous feel about it with Matt, Mike, Mike(jnr) and the opposition’s lead striker all related by blood and spit, but there was to be no family charity. After the last two 9-8 victories, any gambling man would’ve easily plumped a schoolboy skiver on a third in a row, but then the Mollys started banging in the first few with lubricated ease. With the team showing as much restraint as Joey Barton in close proximity to literally anyone, to have conceded eight would’ve been an unmitigated folly on a par to appointing a Geordie manager you can’t sack and then appointing above him an unqualified thug as director (football).
With Nathan and Adam late to this jelly and ice cream party, big Mike adopted his converted midfield role, Mike(jnr) played up top, Leo sweeping, and Gareth playing wingback, from back to front, in what the gaffer would describe as “the pocket”. I spare you another joke about the size of Matt’s sweatpants.
Lots of passes and conjuring tricks, gave the illusion of skill, but the shuffling sideways, and possession football was enough to disassemble whatever formation the The Elite had. The opposition’s keeper’s throw outs were constantly intercepted; the Mollys offered them no time, as standing balls were being whipped from them. With the team playing in front and just off, their opposite numbers, there was a absence of man-marking, and Gareth’s deep-lying presented them with a conundrum they couldn’t solve even with the constant repetition of failure. Even monkeys can be shocked into behavioural patterns. Even Will Smith can be brainwashed into alien worship.
All four Molly outfield players scored in the early few minutes, and only a couple of less than impressive lapses allowed the opposition to work Matt, but rarely was he required to reproduce ‘baby catching thrown from burning building’-like skills.
By the time Adam showed up for the latter stages of the first half to flail his limbs around, the Mollys were so far goals to the good, that any collapse would’ve needed to be of the multiple heart attack variety for the team to lose. 7-2 at half time, and the arrival of Nathan and his belligerent eye for goal, was tantamount to the hanging up to drain the blood, after the throat had already been cut.
Despite the matching costumes and the younger legs and limbs, the opposition continued to possess little skill or tactical know-how. Certainly no midfield general or trick-ass pony up front - like the chess club on a field excursion against a Mollys team loaded with disparate flavours like a box of Heroes (Adam being the Fudge).
We let in a couple more charity-box theft worth of goals, including a penalty after a blatant “paying attention ref?” run through the D by junior Mike, but no-one cared. The match lacked any real fire or fight, very rare fouls, more clumsy than cunning – the squirming of a stocked man in the gallows, and just as ineffectual.
Nathan did his best to seize his dozen goals in a half, and after initially getting pwned by their keeper in the first couple of one-on-ones, Nathan finally got his number, got him back to his place, and got his breakfast made, as he lashed in seven with barely a sweat. Either Nathan’s movement is so subtle as to ghost away isolated from the last defender, or the defence were pre-occupied with thoughts of when their soccer moms were gonna arrive for pick-up. With Gareth weighing in with seven goals also, the heat is still on for the golden boot award, whilst Mike(jnr) got off the mark with a very handsome four of his own, to rubber stamp another free-wheeling performance.
At the back, Adam, Leo and Matt were probably discussing Nietchze whilst blindfolded and holding hands, such was the non-event of defending during the match – probably the same hub of activity as at an Atomic Kitten reunion gig. The opposition ultimately put up their dukes with all the one-sidedness of a Khan vs. Beadle (RIP) fight.
So the match finished 20-4, but only the foolhardy would use this match as a barometer of progress – like boasting of keeping a clean sheet against Stern John and Jason Euell, but as we start to pick up speed coming into the end game of the season, and the win counter climbs higher than the loss column, it seems we’re getting better. Is this the new golden age? Can we consign the generation of Wills and Morris to the forgotten annuls? Will we actually see Gardner in goal?
Times are a changing, with the Mollys undergoing enough recent overhauls to be classified as another upgraded version. Three new recruits this season, a couple of devastating 20+ wins, half-inching victory fightbacks, and a series of successes on the Molly’s Graveyard prompts many a page turning into the next chapter.
This match had an incestuous feel about it with Matt, Mike, Mike(jnr) and the opposition’s lead striker all related by blood and spit, but there was to be no family charity. After the last two 9-8 victories, any gambling man would’ve easily plumped a schoolboy skiver on a third in a row, but then the Mollys started banging in the first few with lubricated ease. With the team showing as much restraint as Joey Barton in close proximity to literally anyone, to have conceded eight would’ve been an unmitigated folly on a par to appointing a Geordie manager you can’t sack and then appointing above him an unqualified thug as director (football).
With Nathan and Adam late to this jelly and ice cream party, big Mike adopted his converted midfield role, Mike(jnr) played up top, Leo sweeping, and Gareth playing wingback, from back to front, in what the gaffer would describe as “the pocket”. I spare you another joke about the size of Matt’s sweatpants.
Lots of passes and conjuring tricks, gave the illusion of skill, but the shuffling sideways, and possession football was enough to disassemble whatever formation the The Elite had. The opposition’s keeper’s throw outs were constantly intercepted; the Mollys offered them no time, as standing balls were being whipped from them. With the team playing in front and just off, their opposite numbers, there was a absence of man-marking, and Gareth’s deep-lying presented them with a conundrum they couldn’t solve even with the constant repetition of failure. Even monkeys can be shocked into behavioural patterns. Even Will Smith can be brainwashed into alien worship.
All four Molly outfield players scored in the early few minutes, and only a couple of less than impressive lapses allowed the opposition to work Matt, but rarely was he required to reproduce ‘baby catching thrown from burning building’-like skills.
By the time Adam showed up for the latter stages of the first half to flail his limbs around, the Mollys were so far goals to the good, that any collapse would’ve needed to be of the multiple heart attack variety for the team to lose. 7-2 at half time, and the arrival of Nathan and his belligerent eye for goal, was tantamount to the hanging up to drain the blood, after the throat had already been cut.
Despite the matching costumes and the younger legs and limbs, the opposition continued to possess little skill or tactical know-how. Certainly no midfield general or trick-ass pony up front - like the chess club on a field excursion against a Mollys team loaded with disparate flavours like a box of Heroes (Adam being the Fudge).
We let in a couple more charity-box theft worth of goals, including a penalty after a blatant “paying attention ref?” run through the D by junior Mike, but no-one cared. The match lacked any real fire or fight, very rare fouls, more clumsy than cunning – the squirming of a stocked man in the gallows, and just as ineffectual.
Nathan did his best to seize his dozen goals in a half, and after initially getting pwned by their keeper in the first couple of one-on-ones, Nathan finally got his number, got him back to his place, and got his breakfast made, as he lashed in seven with barely a sweat. Either Nathan’s movement is so subtle as to ghost away isolated from the last defender, or the defence were pre-occupied with thoughts of when their soccer moms were gonna arrive for pick-up. With Gareth weighing in with seven goals also, the heat is still on for the golden boot award, whilst Mike(jnr) got off the mark with a very handsome four of his own, to rubber stamp another free-wheeling performance.
At the back, Adam, Leo and Matt were probably discussing Nietchze whilst blindfolded and holding hands, such was the non-event of defending during the match – probably the same hub of activity as at an Atomic Kitten reunion gig. The opposition ultimately put up their dukes with all the one-sidedness of a Khan vs. Beadle (RIP) fight.
So the match finished 20-4, but only the foolhardy would use this match as a barometer of progress – like boasting of keeping a clean sheet against Stern John and Jason Euell, but as we start to pick up speed coming into the end game of the season, and the win counter climbs higher than the loss column, it seems we’re getting better. Is this the new golden age? Can we consign the generation of Wills and Morris to the forgotten annuls? Will we actually see Gardner in goal?
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