LOST 16-2
M*tt, L*o, St*ve1, Al*n, Little M*ke1, N*than
“Two bodies have I. Though both joined in one. The stiller I stand. The faster I run.”
I would have personally preferred something like “Headsoff” or “Floor Cleaner”, but who am I to criticise the dearth of imaginative names. Yet if there was any reason to believe that The Molly Maguires had reached their nadir last week, that reason was suffocated under the cannon fodder corpses of tonight’s match.
When there are times like these, you wish that one of the old boys would finally reveal that he hasn’t been telling us the truth, is actually a secret millionaire, was looking for a worthwhile charitable cause. And found it in us.
When an opposition player asks you if your keeper has a twin brother who can play for them even whilst the gaffer’s letting in 16 goals, and we barely trouble them with two, you just know you’re having a bad day.
When your primary striker is, an emo-fringed 14 year old who can’t track back, and can’t beat two defenders (I’m bemoaning the attempt, not the failure), supported by a middle-aged winger who can run the whole length of the pitch, lose it without getting a shot off, and then has to run back the entire length of the pitch to prevent the counter-strike, goals are going to be as hard to come by, as watching a Madonna nude scene is hard to cum by.
When your primary defender is unable to hold his position at the heart of defence, because he deludingly thinks he can impact the forward threat, supported by a brittle-boned mad-dog whose free-kicks are so slow that the tide has time to come in and go out again, then goals are going to be conceded with the same regularity afforded by a Senokot laced prune juice.
When one of your more skilled players comes onto the pitch, with the warm-up equivalent of a Thai massage, lasts barely two minutes, and then hobbles off with a foot injury that sees him charged just 50p for his contribution, then the balance of the team is more shot away, then the creative genius who green-lit that sick Orangina ad with bikini-wearing giraffes.
With our season now two games into the swing, we’re coming across like the Derby County of this league, and with a severely limited number of available players, like the genepool in Cornwall, we may as well be starting with a minus 22 points for our financial iwrongularities. There’s no Baby Bentleys to be sold off in this team, just a damaged rickshaw, a sunken battleship, a deflated Zorb ball and a Cortina on bricks.
When the highlight of the evening amounts to watching the match before, being played out 4-a-side, the ref having sent off two players for presumably kicking each other, like donkeys kick asses (this metaphor works on at least two levels); when the highlight of the match is the ref (again) having an argument with the Treesdown player about not retreating from a free-kick; when the goal of the match is a superb central through ball from the youngest Molly to the oldest, who then creates half a yard of space to curl into the bottom corner; when these are the most interesting things to write about, then I am really scraping the bottom of the barrel, like using this cliché is scraping the bottom of the barrel.
With our front line hardly troubling Treesdown’s keeper with any shots memorable, and I should know - I’m trying, the possession was nine-tenths theirs. When our defence were not blocking and deflecting shots like pinball flippers; when we weren’t fouling them as they bounced the ball from one foot to another as they dashed past us; when we weren’t trying to cushion and trap balls that pinged off us over regulation height; when we weren’t running into dead ends and getting stranded; well that’s when our keeper was getting busy with the fizzy.
Balls cracked at him from distance were slipping past him; shots from the edge of the D were being wonderfully saved, but an injury to his thumb (amazingly not from removing it from a Christmas plum pie) saw him resort to a denied tactic of trying to save with his legs. A tactic not seen so badly used since the days of Gareth’s mate, and Charlesworth before him. With an injury list that also included a bruised toe, sore ribs, battered pride and general sweating, the end of the match was a blessed euthanasiam relief. A worse defeat ranking easily top five. With battles off the pitch to get enough players to battle on the pitch, this season already has a turgid feel about it. Michael Stipe and netball have a lot to answer for.
Look at that. A whole match report, and not a single player’s name mentioned. The same anonymity afforded to child-age killers.
M*tt, L*o, St*ve1, Al*n, Little M*ke1, N*than
“Two bodies have I. Though both joined in one. The stiller I stand. The faster I run.”
I would have personally preferred something like “Headsoff” or “Floor Cleaner”, but who am I to criticise the dearth of imaginative names. Yet if there was any reason to believe that The Molly Maguires had reached their nadir last week, that reason was suffocated under the cannon fodder corpses of tonight’s match.
When there are times like these, you wish that one of the old boys would finally reveal that he hasn’t been telling us the truth, is actually a secret millionaire, was looking for a worthwhile charitable cause. And found it in us.
When an opposition player asks you if your keeper has a twin brother who can play for them even whilst the gaffer’s letting in 16 goals, and we barely trouble them with two, you just know you’re having a bad day.
When your primary striker is, an emo-fringed 14 year old who can’t track back, and can’t beat two defenders (I’m bemoaning the attempt, not the failure), supported by a middle-aged winger who can run the whole length of the pitch, lose it without getting a shot off, and then has to run back the entire length of the pitch to prevent the counter-strike, goals are going to be as hard to come by, as watching a Madonna nude scene is hard to cum by.
When your primary defender is unable to hold his position at the heart of defence, because he deludingly thinks he can impact the forward threat, supported by a brittle-boned mad-dog whose free-kicks are so slow that the tide has time to come in and go out again, then goals are going to be conceded with the same regularity afforded by a Senokot laced prune juice.
When one of your more skilled players comes onto the pitch, with the warm-up equivalent of a Thai massage, lasts barely two minutes, and then hobbles off with a foot injury that sees him charged just 50p for his contribution, then the balance of the team is more shot away, then the creative genius who green-lit that sick Orangina ad with bikini-wearing giraffes.
With our season now two games into the swing, we’re coming across like the Derby County of this league, and with a severely limited number of available players, like the genepool in Cornwall, we may as well be starting with a minus 22 points for our financial iwrongularities. There’s no Baby Bentleys to be sold off in this team, just a damaged rickshaw, a sunken battleship, a deflated Zorb ball and a Cortina on bricks.
When the highlight of the evening amounts to watching the match before, being played out 4-a-side, the ref having sent off two players for presumably kicking each other, like donkeys kick asses (this metaphor works on at least two levels); when the highlight of the match is the ref (again) having an argument with the Treesdown player about not retreating from a free-kick; when the goal of the match is a superb central through ball from the youngest Molly to the oldest, who then creates half a yard of space to curl into the bottom corner; when these are the most interesting things to write about, then I am really scraping the bottom of the barrel, like using this cliché is scraping the bottom of the barrel.
With our front line hardly troubling Treesdown’s keeper with any shots memorable, and I should know - I’m trying, the possession was nine-tenths theirs. When our defence were not blocking and deflecting shots like pinball flippers; when we weren’t fouling them as they bounced the ball from one foot to another as they dashed past us; when we weren’t trying to cushion and trap balls that pinged off us over regulation height; when we weren’t running into dead ends and getting stranded; well that’s when our keeper was getting busy with the fizzy.
Balls cracked at him from distance were slipping past him; shots from the edge of the D were being wonderfully saved, but an injury to his thumb (amazingly not from removing it from a Christmas plum pie) saw him resort to a denied tactic of trying to save with his legs. A tactic not seen so badly used since the days of Gareth’s mate, and Charlesworth before him. With an injury list that also included a bruised toe, sore ribs, battered pride and general sweating, the end of the match was a blessed euthanasiam relief. A worse defeat ranking easily top five. With battles off the pitch to get enough players to battle on the pitch, this season already has a turgid feel about it. Michael Stipe and netball have a lot to answer for.
Look at that. A whole match report, and not a single player’s name mentioned. The same anonymity afforded to child-age killers.
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