Matt, Leo 2, Alan 1, Gareth 2, Steve
LOST 16-5
As the chants of “we are staying up” rang around St Mary’s, the misnomer of pitch invasioning the fact that Saints were actually “staying here” in the Crapionship, suggested a final coming to terms of forever life in the second tier. Congratulations.
The Molly Maguires have also become accustomed to mediocrity, nestling safe in inappropriately low cut for work, but hooray for summer, bosom of the middle third of the lowest tier. And whilst Matt does his best to find the team’s way out of the cellar, a lack of resources, and a conspiring of elements, is hampering the team’s development and progress.
The retirement of Dean, the extended leave of absence for Big Mike, and the inexplicable disappearance, save for a possible background sighting in Blood, Sweat and T-shirts, of Nobby (can you Fed-Ex me back that Derren Brown book when you’ve done reading it on the toilet?) has left the team fending for itself with six players for the vast majority of the season. With Matt fretting over his denim man-purse kitty and its lack of contents, and making wild suggestions of increasing subs to £7 a pop to meet the registration fee, the season has been on the verge of imploding.
Last week against 86 FC was a flat, unchallenging, washed out performance, only livened up by Alan offering to clock an opposition player for a blatant ankle smash, right in front of his watching daughter; and Gareth taking his protests directly to the sub-standard referee after the match, who admitted his inability to see Gareth being lifted off the ground with reckless kicks.
This week was little better. It started with Matt mistakenly sending a request for player availability to his own home email, with the kind of technological naivety that allows the FBI to unswirl pictures and organise manhunts in Thailand. As a result the two most reliable members of the squad – Adam and Nathan – were freed up to have some homoerotic adventures of their own, probably whilst dressed up in their ‘Pool and ‘Sea strips, whilst the team on the night were only five men strong.
And whilst Ronaldo got ambushed by only three dick heads, the Mollys had to endure twice that number tonight. This wasn’t a footballing contest (which we would’ve lost anyway), but a sequence of provocations and violent assaults from Testwood FC that went unpunished by a referee, no more successfully trained and approved by the F.A. than attention-seeking Gascoigne is likely to drown himself by pouring a bottle of Becks over his head.
We had actually started at a level pace, returning fire with relative ease, as we tried to sort out our formation, that had so many of our players sitting deep, you could feel the old men’s piles. Indeed at one stage, we’d manage to drag ourselves level to 4-4, before ending the first half about 6-4 down. We never recovered after that. We succeeded in the stamina test, but with every player having to drop off the pace to regain breath, and an attack that had Leo in the pole position, there was only ever gonna be a tonking in the second half. Our aborted attempt at a 2-2 formation didn’t help an iota, and the opposition’s shooting was just too hard and accurate for Matt’s diving range.
The opposition were full of the usual nutjobs, football being a contact sport when it suited them, and yet being incredibly amazed when they were then on the end of said contact. Not surprisingly Gareth was singled out for special treatment as he tried to spin through every outfield player on his way to goal. Not surprisingly Don was shouting his usual ‘watch the arms’ and being told to shut up by the opposition. Yet we arguably played into their hands, trying to rough it up with Testwank FC, when we clearly did not have the bouncibility bulk of Big Mike, or the shoulder-barging expertise of Adam.
The bias bastard referee was making decisions with the same rational thought process that a wealthy Brazilian international uses to pick prostitutes in dark alleyways. Despite our players being kicked into the air more times than the ball, the referee seemed incapable of pulling a blue card (or whatever colour-coded crap they have for sin-binning) out of his pocket. He was more likely to pull a Valentine’s card out of his knickers, or a hand out of his arse. As always there was an especially vocal twat on the opposition team spouting more bollocks than at a Brazilian footballer’s orgy. (Third reference. Yes!) Always incensed when a decision went against him, bawling like a baby denied a boob, this overbearing moron is what’s wrong with the youth of today.
So the game happened. We scored a pocketful of goals, they scored a stolen charity box full of goals. Whatever. This result was simply a following of the pattern for the season. There was still the free £10 bar voucher to use, as Goals’ incentive to stop teams crying off to watch the telly football, whilst Alan talked up the fact he was decked out in West London blue, and forcing Matt to empty the kitty of an extra £3 to cover the difference of five drinks. I swear there was weeping.
The Molly Maguires have also become accustomed to mediocrity, nestling safe in inappropriately low cut for work, but hooray for summer, bosom of the middle third of the lowest tier. And whilst Matt does his best to find the team’s way out of the cellar, a lack of resources, and a conspiring of elements, is hampering the team’s development and progress.
The retirement of Dean, the extended leave of absence for Big Mike, and the inexplicable disappearance, save for a possible background sighting in Blood, Sweat and T-shirts, of Nobby (can you Fed-Ex me back that Derren Brown book when you’ve done reading it on the toilet?) has left the team fending for itself with six players for the vast majority of the season. With Matt fretting over his denim man-purse kitty and its lack of contents, and making wild suggestions of increasing subs to £7 a pop to meet the registration fee, the season has been on the verge of imploding.
Last week against 86 FC was a flat, unchallenging, washed out performance, only livened up by Alan offering to clock an opposition player for a blatant ankle smash, right in front of his watching daughter; and Gareth taking his protests directly to the sub-standard referee after the match, who admitted his inability to see Gareth being lifted off the ground with reckless kicks.
This week was little better. It started with Matt mistakenly sending a request for player availability to his own home email, with the kind of technological naivety that allows the FBI to unswirl pictures and organise manhunts in Thailand. As a result the two most reliable members of the squad – Adam and Nathan – were freed up to have some homoerotic adventures of their own, probably whilst dressed up in their ‘Pool and ‘Sea strips, whilst the team on the night were only five men strong.
And whilst Ronaldo got ambushed by only three dick heads, the Mollys had to endure twice that number tonight. This wasn’t a footballing contest (which we would’ve lost anyway), but a sequence of provocations and violent assaults from Testwood FC that went unpunished by a referee, no more successfully trained and approved by the F.A. than attention-seeking Gascoigne is likely to drown himself by pouring a bottle of Becks over his head.
We had actually started at a level pace, returning fire with relative ease, as we tried to sort out our formation, that had so many of our players sitting deep, you could feel the old men’s piles. Indeed at one stage, we’d manage to drag ourselves level to 4-4, before ending the first half about 6-4 down. We never recovered after that. We succeeded in the stamina test, but with every player having to drop off the pace to regain breath, and an attack that had Leo in the pole position, there was only ever gonna be a tonking in the second half. Our aborted attempt at a 2-2 formation didn’t help an iota, and the opposition’s shooting was just too hard and accurate for Matt’s diving range.
The opposition were full of the usual nutjobs, football being a contact sport when it suited them, and yet being incredibly amazed when they were then on the end of said contact. Not surprisingly Gareth was singled out for special treatment as he tried to spin through every outfield player on his way to goal. Not surprisingly Don was shouting his usual ‘watch the arms’ and being told to shut up by the opposition. Yet we arguably played into their hands, trying to rough it up with Testwank FC, when we clearly did not have the bouncibility bulk of Big Mike, or the shoulder-barging expertise of Adam.
The bias bastard referee was making decisions with the same rational thought process that a wealthy Brazilian international uses to pick prostitutes in dark alleyways. Despite our players being kicked into the air more times than the ball, the referee seemed incapable of pulling a blue card (or whatever colour-coded crap they have for sin-binning) out of his pocket. He was more likely to pull a Valentine’s card out of his knickers, or a hand out of his arse. As always there was an especially vocal twat on the opposition team spouting more bollocks than at a Brazilian footballer’s orgy. (Third reference. Yes!) Always incensed when a decision went against him, bawling like a baby denied a boob, this overbearing moron is what’s wrong with the youth of today.
So the game happened. We scored a pocketful of goals, they scored a stolen charity box full of goals. Whatever. This result was simply a following of the pattern for the season. There was still the free £10 bar voucher to use, as Goals’ incentive to stop teams crying off to watch the telly football, whilst Alan talked up the fact he was decked out in West London blue, and forcing Matt to empty the kitty of an extra £3 to cover the difference of five drinks. I swear there was weeping.
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