Leo, Alan 2, Nathan 4, Gareth 9, Adam, Don
Won 15-9
I’ve been away for a while, and a lot can happen in a month. Not only is it the end of the real world football season, and the end of the Mollyverse football season, but it’s the start of the summer, with all the monotony of England-less Euro 2008, and the lobotomy of lesser England Big Brother.
I’ve managed to finally drag myself back to my computer, waded my way through the corpses of young stab victims that seem to litter our streets in recent times, to bang out a thorough season closer report that leaves no loose ends, no cliff-hangers. It’s the talent that Lungboy’s got – Britain’s talent appears to be knife throwing.
A month ago saw a Molly Maguires double-header against two bottom teams, which had the result inevitability of an English and Champions League double fixture.
The first match against Sholy Hit was a complete basket case of a contest. The first half was the keel-over gut punch, the second half, a beat-em up air juggling combo. Once the flat match ball had been sent into quarantine beyond the green wire caging, and the sun in our eyes had become the sun on our backs, the 3-pin attack of Mike (jnr), Nathan and Gareth, plugged into Sholy Hit’s brittle coated orifices, and blew the holy shit out of them. Not even Matt’s hapless, incestuous passing to his cousin’s dog’s stepsister’s owner’s boyfriend on the opposition, nor Alan’s bad foot day, inability to control the ball, pass cleanly, and his shucking fit shooting, stopped the Mollys from recording one of the highest victories in their history.
I’ve managed to finally drag myself back to my computer, waded my way through the corpses of young stab victims that seem to litter our streets in recent times, to bang out a thorough season closer report that leaves no loose ends, no cliff-hangers. It’s the talent that Lungboy’s got – Britain’s talent appears to be knife throwing.
A month ago saw a Molly Maguires double-header against two bottom teams, which had the result inevitability of an English and Champions League double fixture.
The first match against Sholy Hit was a complete basket case of a contest. The first half was the keel-over gut punch, the second half, a beat-em up air juggling combo. Once the flat match ball had been sent into quarantine beyond the green wire caging, and the sun in our eyes had become the sun on our backs, the 3-pin attack of Mike (jnr), Nathan and Gareth, plugged into Sholy Hit’s brittle coated orifices, and blew the holy shit out of them. Not even Matt’s hapless, incestuous passing to his cousin’s dog’s stepsister’s owner’s boyfriend on the opposition, nor Alan’s bad foot day, inability to control the ball, pass cleanly, and his shucking fit shooting, stopped the Mollys from recording one of the highest victories in their history.
The second game of this hot twin lesbian sex scenario was a less showy, but no less deserved victorious display. The seven o’clock start presented the usual logistical turning up on time problems, and forced the scenario of starting the game with just three Molly outfield players, as Gareth, Alan and Leo formed a chain-link formation across the pitch width, Kabadi-style. Clearly intimidated by our confidence in not delaying kick-off, Could Be Worse FC, couldn’t have been any worse in making their numerical advantage count. We played a defensive, slow paced, let Gareth counter-attack style that easily proved their equal. Despite the wet referee (Molly players know who I’m talking about) openly confessing to awarding two dubious penalties, one for us, and then against, in order to “make things even”, wii fittingly held our balance on the score line to 3-3 by the time Adam arrived. Then we went 4-3 down. Nathan showed up a few minutes after that. Then we went 5-3 down. Despite our attritional tactics going to the wall once we’d got back to full strength, we did enough in the second half to win in misplaced and sluggish comfort.
Two weeks of non-playing followed, due in part to the Battle of England in Moscow (anyone else receive an MMS of a fat Manc fan in a ruskie hat?) making the team itchy, like ball sacks, to get back on the pitch for this final game of the season.
With Matt spending his birthday in Cuba, presumably a special treat from Mr Gooding Jnr. himself, it was left to Leo to hold aloft the mystical man-purse above his head, “By the power of Gayskull!” transforming from defensive lynchpin to goalkeeping icon. A team of five was quite literally scrapped together for what was anticipated to be a white-knuckle free falling nose-dive of end-to-end action.
With five minutes to kick-off, it was touch and go whether we’d have to start with just three outfield players again – one of whom would be Don, boy scout ready in his blues. Luckily we had our twin strike force up front, with the double A in defence from the get go, with Don proving a vital substitute for a squad three weeks rusty. Ironically, the team would yet again experience an outfield of three early into the match, with a historic, unprecedented Molly Maguires sin-binning. Would Adam’s deliberately shoulder charging finally get the punishment it deserved?
So before either team had a meaningful attempt at anything, Gareth rips past his opposite number down the right wing, unleashes a goal ward shot and then gets smashed against the boards like a thunder crack. As Gareth gets up and gives him a WTF? gesture, there is then what they call a ‘coming of foreheads’, and what appeared to be The Elite’s player pushing toward Gareth – you know, just like when Premiership players dance around each other like rutting stags, in that pussy pseudo head butt but not head butt way.
What then follows is the cute female referee telling the naughty boys off for being childish, threatening them with a metaphorical spanking if they continue such behaviour, and promptly sending them both off for a cool off in the sin-bin. Yeah, you heard right – Gareth got blue-balled by a girl (I think that’s what they call it). It took Gareth a few seconds to realise that he had actually been given his marching orders, but it took me at least two minutes after play had re-started before I realised that we were suddenly down to three outfield, as my bullish shout to “make our extra man count” will testify (damn my eyes). What should have been a run of the mill end of season battle for fifth place turned into a super-charged battle for pride and revenge.
Both teams of three played a cagey possession game, broken first by an awful and obvious back pass from Adam, a mistake that Leo compounded by letting run past him into a baying net. For gawd’s sake Leo, touch the ball, save the shot, concede the penalty, save the penalty. Not give the opposition a stinking cheap lead. Still we continued to fight back, shots getting rammed at their opposition keeper, and the spoils were shared 3 a-piece, by the time the kids were allowed off the naughty step.
Formation-wise, the Mollys were easily outclassing The Elite. Don on the pitch meant a rooted defender, but both Adam and Alan were curtailing their usual forays into dead ends, defending stoutly. Yet Leo faced too frequently one on ones, handled significantly better then the slashing cross shots from the right wing into the side netting, that his positional and diving skills were incapable of keeping out.
Still, upfront the Mollys were dragging their opposite numbers around, our dribbling skills easily outclassing theirs, frequently leaving markers in the wake, and using the numbers advantage in counter-attack. With momentum, and the ball rolling, The Elite were capable of passing beyond our back line; from a standing start, they got tackled and turned over frequently. At one point, there were four Elite players all gathered around the right hand side of their goal - the very definition of ‘schoolboy tactics’.
Nathan was lucky not to face a ‘blue card’ himself when an unpunished handling by their keeper outside the D, resulted in him terrorising the stunned ref with a “YOU’RE FUCKING SHIT!” Perhaps craving some discipline himself, it can only be a matter of time before ‘female referee’ joins the fantasy pantheon alongside ‘naughty schoolgirl’ and ‘sexy nurse’. Have Nuts done a pullout special yet?
The first half finished six-all, the lead changing hands throughout, but the Mollys were going to turn it up to 11 in the second half, as tiredness, frustration and substitution unbalancing were The Elite’s undoing. Throw in Leo finally getting his grip together in the shade of the other end, and Gareth turning on the style so much that the facet broke and flooded the pitch, and the Mollys were about to skull crack their way through the opposition’s brain.
It was a shattering exercise, but the Mollys had more reserves of energy to call upon in the second half. The right wing suddenly became a more open option, as the team played a higher line. Alan started to be all over the pitch width, as the team pressed forward to end the contest and begin the humiliation. The shot-blocking was better, still desperately last second, but very rarely was anything but soft balls bouncing toward and off Leo’s gloves. Our keeper’s throw outs were still dreadfully shy of their renowned pacey long range quality, as the opposition remained tight to their opposite number, but this just gave a blank cheque to Nathan and Gareth to scribble ‘catch me if you can’ all across their man-markers. Facing goal in his own half, Gareth set about humbling the opposition with a succession of running dribbles the entire length of the pitch, before performing drive-by shootings past their about to be flat-on-his-ass keeper.
Most Molly goals were direct drilled shots straight down the keeper’s throat, as some neat tackling and short range passing allowed the frontmen to get clear beyond what was turning into a ghost of an opposition back line. Even Alan managed to knuckle in a couple, when he decided not to perform that extra touch too many (there’s a sex offender joke in there somewhere).
Adam was actually performing heroics in defence, still more Wonder Woman than Batman, as the Niagara Falls poured down his back and he revelled in the role of last hope in defence. Still he too managed to avoid a high squealed telling off, or a rubbing of foreheads, when he scythed through a opposition number, as Nathan defended his integrity with a shout of “He’s just clumsy!” in the same the way you shout out “He’s just disabled!” when your friend runs over someone’s foot with their wheelchair.
The Mollys broke away with a solid three or four goal lead that couldn’t be breached, despite Leo again getting twice suckered by slashing over ground shots from the right wing. Whatever mistaken belief The Elite had that they could drag themselves back into the match slowly ebbed away and in the end a slightly impressive 15-9 victory was suitable justice for a team, which had a lummox and a pensioner in defence.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes at the always efficiently run Goals centre, a new policy is in place. Clearly bordering on the financial brink, the company have suffered a lack of match fees as of late due to Premiership clubs adventures in the Champions League forcing cancellations. They’ll suffer further that no-one really cares about Euro 08 without England, except those southern Mancs supporting Portugal, Holland and France, not enough to rack up a big bar bill.
The grand new scheme by our host is to reduce the league to six teams, so they can get their rip-off registration fee four weeks early, and to make us contractually promise to turn up. Two cancellations, and “You’re fired!” from the league. Cut. Nose. Spite. Face. It’s all feeling very Community Order to me.
With the team finishing in a respectable and very consistent fourth place, despite only ever having played one game this season with a full squad of seven, next season could well break the team. Does Matt demand a £7 match fee to make a profit to pay the registration? Can we go a whole season with a threadbare squad of players with old and frailness; long distance lateness; child care before dark (yet Alan always manages to get out of the house…); three week holidays abroad? Do we finally move back to Thursday?
It almost feels like Police Academy: Mission To Moscow. Most of the original cast have long since gone since the franchise’s inception (but not necessarily to better things - poor Guttenberg), and you’re left with a man who can make noises with his mouth. Matt is Bobcat. And it’s kinda creepy in an Eastenders way to watch a child star like Gareth grow into a man.
The future may not be bright, but it’s sure to be interesting. Whatever next, indoor cricket on a Sunday evening?
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