LOST 13-5
Matt, Leo, Steve, Alan1, Mike1, Gareth3
"Hello! Hello! It's good to be back. It's good to be back"
Looking back through this blog, I note a distinct lack of reports written about our matches against Testwood FC. I aim to correct that anomaly with this report, at the expense of all other reports, incomplete or unstarted. Testwood FC have long been our nemesis, in the way Roystone Rangers used to be, this being the fourth season we’ve been together in electric dreams. One win in seven is a record only Derby County would be envious of and such defeatist agony would be bearable if they were a much better side than us. They are not. Why else are we still playing with each other longer than a Britney Spears marriage?
The evening had started pleasantly enough, as Gareth had brought the personification of his “In A Relationship” Facebook status as touchline totty, trumping Steve’s claims that our promotion to the Championship meant he was now married to a WAG. The old man had returned from tending to his allotment, cultivating his veggies to look like boobs and willies. Alan had flown back from America, balder than usual, and with Mike also in situ, the team had the engine of a Turbo Terrific 09. It also had its unreliability.
With Goals announcing a match fee price hike by £1.25 from 1st September, it doesn’t require a fresh on the market Carol Vorderman to do the math, on how Goals are going to re-coop the extra £10 from our reduced registration fee. It’s this kind of money grabbing bullshit that sees the company losing customers hand over fist over head over ass, which is no mean feat when the first aforementioned three are stuck up the last. The Molly’s signature on the decree nisi is freshly wet.
The match itself started with ominous portent as Matt fumbled a weak-ass shot off his slippery grip into our goal, and Mike at the other end, sliced the ball with the same finesse afforded to a doner kebab, whilst an empty net gaped open. With a formation that owed everything to hassle, harry, cash and carry, the deep lying line-up conceded the bulk of possession in the hope of counter-attacks, lucky breaks, and long-range punts.
Initial endeavours proved useful, if hardly exacting. Gareth having to thrust his way through markers, with only intermittent success; Alan bounding up and down the wings with nowhere to go; Steve playing dangerously sophisticated short balls in front of the D and Mike forever trying give and go one-twos. With Leo barely bouncing a few feet from the front door of Matt’s club, it was soak up siege and then strike out speed.
Like all good comedy ensembles, Testwood FC have some notable characters - the Italian named Mario or Romeo, with all the close quarters control of a melting ice lolly on a stick; the blonde Beckham wannabe ‘Stix’ (not unlike our brunette Beckham wannabe) with a devastating turn of pace and dribbling skills of a six month old baby force fed lemons; the guy who looks like he’s president of some computer club; and the wanker (who may or may not be one of the above) who smashed Gareth into the wall, with the same ‘going for the ball’ excuse, that Joey Barton used to explain how he tackles by punching team-mates in the face. Repeatedly.
Narrowly avoiding what was a stick-on sin-binning for making Gareth look like a girl in front of his girl, the Testwood player got a stern telling off and a ‘no more’ warning from the referee, that seemed to pull the sting from the 'aggressive team' bug, if not squash it into a pulpy smear.
Without a holding player up front (no names – his ego’s big enough), the Mollys were forced to pass and play, run through channels, and attempt to play through an over-crowded midfield, in which we had no foothold. Playing face-up to the ball allowed a better covering of their attacks, but limited our own ability to press any number advantage home. The opposition played the ball from the back, and always had an overlappingly frequent option. They drove through us down the centre, switched to the wings, then back down the middle for central strikes at Matt. The fact we came out of the first half just 5-3 down was quite remarkable.
Second half was a downward spiral. We barely whimpered as they gutted us inside and out. Tiredness saw us dropping deep, without the forward-motion skills to make space for ourselves. With lack of discipline creeping in, and our shape getting more ragged than Winehouse’s face, danger was all around Matt’s ground zero, and the press for goals left him exposed, and that’s not a sight anyone should endure.
At the other end, it was probably safer in the air, despite the burning engines, loss of cabin pressure, and Mike and Leo’s high off-target shooting. Indeed, with the lynchpin abandoning his defensive duties in pursuit of the golden glory, it merely encouraged Matt to perform outrageously awful long-throw outs that never made it past the first man, let alone the second. If world news has taught us anything recently, its that Asians know how to repel dirty invaders looking for paedomatic immunity, so an exact metaphorical comparison can be drawn to this match. Leo leaving the job to a couple of old janitors is asking for any old weirdo to sneak past.
This was an utterly heartbreaking defeat; heartbreaking like England’s continued capitulation to the hands of mediocrity, heartbreaking like Jade Goody’s cancer (black, I bet), heartbreaking like a broken Love Heart. I end this report now, because I haven’t managed that for a while.
Matt, Leo, Steve, Alan1, Mike1, Gareth3
"Hello! Hello! It's good to be back. It's good to be back"
Looking back through this blog, I note a distinct lack of reports written about our matches against Testwood FC. I aim to correct that anomaly with this report, at the expense of all other reports, incomplete or unstarted. Testwood FC have long been our nemesis, in the way Roystone Rangers used to be, this being the fourth season we’ve been together in electric dreams. One win in seven is a record only Derby County would be envious of and such defeatist agony would be bearable if they were a much better side than us. They are not. Why else are we still playing with each other longer than a Britney Spears marriage?
The evening had started pleasantly enough, as Gareth had brought the personification of his “In A Relationship” Facebook status as touchline totty, trumping Steve’s claims that our promotion to the Championship meant he was now married to a WAG. The old man had returned from tending to his allotment, cultivating his veggies to look like boobs and willies. Alan had flown back from America, balder than usual, and with Mike also in situ, the team had the engine of a Turbo Terrific 09. It also had its unreliability.
With Goals announcing a match fee price hike by £1.25 from 1st September, it doesn’t require a fresh on the market Carol Vorderman to do the math, on how Goals are going to re-coop the extra £10 from our reduced registration fee. It’s this kind of money grabbing bullshit that sees the company losing customers hand over fist over head over ass, which is no mean feat when the first aforementioned three are stuck up the last. The Molly’s signature on the decree nisi is freshly wet.
The match itself started with ominous portent as Matt fumbled a weak-ass shot off his slippery grip into our goal, and Mike at the other end, sliced the ball with the same finesse afforded to a doner kebab, whilst an empty net gaped open. With a formation that owed everything to hassle, harry, cash and carry, the deep lying line-up conceded the bulk of possession in the hope of counter-attacks, lucky breaks, and long-range punts.
Initial endeavours proved useful, if hardly exacting. Gareth having to thrust his way through markers, with only intermittent success; Alan bounding up and down the wings with nowhere to go; Steve playing dangerously sophisticated short balls in front of the D and Mike forever trying give and go one-twos. With Leo barely bouncing a few feet from the front door of Matt’s club, it was soak up siege and then strike out speed.
Like all good comedy ensembles, Testwood FC have some notable characters - the Italian named Mario or Romeo, with all the close quarters control of a melting ice lolly on a stick; the blonde Beckham wannabe ‘Stix’ (not unlike our brunette Beckham wannabe) with a devastating turn of pace and dribbling skills of a six month old baby force fed lemons; the guy who looks like he’s president of some computer club; and the wanker (who may or may not be one of the above) who smashed Gareth into the wall, with the same ‘going for the ball’ excuse, that Joey Barton used to explain how he tackles by punching team-mates in the face. Repeatedly.
Narrowly avoiding what was a stick-on sin-binning for making Gareth look like a girl in front of his girl, the Testwood player got a stern telling off and a ‘no more’ warning from the referee, that seemed to pull the sting from the 'aggressive team' bug, if not squash it into a pulpy smear.
Without a holding player up front (no names – his ego’s big enough), the Mollys were forced to pass and play, run through channels, and attempt to play through an over-crowded midfield, in which we had no foothold. Playing face-up to the ball allowed a better covering of their attacks, but limited our own ability to press any number advantage home. The opposition played the ball from the back, and always had an overlappingly frequent option. They drove through us down the centre, switched to the wings, then back down the middle for central strikes at Matt. The fact we came out of the first half just 5-3 down was quite remarkable.
Second half was a downward spiral. We barely whimpered as they gutted us inside and out. Tiredness saw us dropping deep, without the forward-motion skills to make space for ourselves. With lack of discipline creeping in, and our shape getting more ragged than Winehouse’s face, danger was all around Matt’s ground zero, and the press for goals left him exposed, and that’s not a sight anyone should endure.
At the other end, it was probably safer in the air, despite the burning engines, loss of cabin pressure, and Mike and Leo’s high off-target shooting. Indeed, with the lynchpin abandoning his defensive duties in pursuit of the golden glory, it merely encouraged Matt to perform outrageously awful long-throw outs that never made it past the first man, let alone the second. If world news has taught us anything recently, its that Asians know how to repel dirty invaders looking for paedomatic immunity, so an exact metaphorical comparison can be drawn to this match. Leo leaving the job to a couple of old janitors is asking for any old weirdo to sneak past.
This was an utterly heartbreaking defeat; heartbreaking like England’s continued capitulation to the hands of mediocrity, heartbreaking like Jade Goody’s cancer (black, I bet), heartbreaking like a broken Love Heart. I end this report now, because I haven’t managed that for a while.
Aw, shit, I forgot. As a postscript, with the bar empty, and the England match over, I bore witness to the gross sight of Alan scoffing down some stale left over sandwiches and nibbles from the buffet tray. Which says all you need to know about Mrs Skinner's cooking.
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