8:7 Best Since Best 10/12/08 8.30pm

LOST 5-14
Matt, Leo1, Steve, Alan2, Mike1, Gareth1, Robbie

We're approaching the end of Season 8. Not even the Sopranos, or Buffy The Vampire Slayer made it this far. Yet here we are once again standing on the cold astroturf kicking a frozen ball around on a blister cold pitch, as we attempt to negotiate our way through another game in a season, filled with the usual tragedy, heartache, romance, betrayal and subterfuge.

Numbers can be deceptive. Like bra sizes. Like gross salary. Like score-lines.

5-14 might suggest a dog day afternoon evening of a performance, and it's gonna take a few more of these cheap tricks of defeat, before we find our pretty woman of victory. But in fact, effort on our part could barely be faulted tonight, and I'll even keep stum about Matt's possibly less than Artois goalkeeping - in case the replacement of him next week doesn't go according to the come together loving plan.

So where did we go right - like winning an ugliest baby contest? The opposition were predictable. Predictable like AIDS. We knew what was happening, but couldn't do much to stop it. Scoring like a lottery-winning heroin addict, Best Since Best (personally I've never rated Leon Best as any good) were simply too immeasurably potent, for our stomachs to take. They ragged on us for most of the match, and displayed shooting power and accuracy so clinical that not even Matt, if he'd eaten the team bus, could stop the decimation. The key word, of course, is 'most'. I could dwell on their infuriating ability to pass it from the back in one-twos; their dribblers who liked to run straight down your throat and then play chicken with your mistimed tackle; their 'little man syndrome' running his mouth off as much as his legs; and their golem centre-forward, with a weight and size, and illegal palming off technique, that allowed lay-offs into easy shooting opps. But I won't.

Instead, I'll sing the virtues of our team, ironic like X-Factor contestants sing Britney. The opposition were happy to stand off us, and gave us time on the ball - they weren't hack merchants, just body checkers - but we had to get possession of the ball first, and with their frequent forays into our half producing goals, this wasn't easy without the ref's whistling intervention. When we did find ourselves in scoring positions, we seemed incapable of blasting the ball anywhere than straight into the keeper's arms, despite Don flirting with him during the second half, to supposedly distract him.

At the back and through the middle, the usual suspects of brittle bones, old age, and spirited doggedness - Leo, Steve and Robbie, were trying to comprehend the sheer movement that was bearing down on them from all angles. And in goal, was Matt.

The last time Steve faced this opposition he had impressed them with his keenness to hack away at the legs of anyone near him, finally winding up the golem, with an objectionable swipe, much like hacking at a Redwood with a surgical scalpel. Verbal abuse had followed, and the hilarious taunt that Steve was a "dinlo". This time, Steve was spared such ignominy, but the monolith was still up to his usual arm and elbow up, stand on ball, lay off play. And reacting to it was what we had to try to do, without overly double-teaming him or else allow the other sneaky sons of bitches to slide past us into open space.

Up front, Alan, Gareth and Mike were doing their best to cause trouble. Gareth opened the scoring for us with a neatly executed skimmer that slid under their golden boy keeper's body, and Alan came out fighting, brutally wounded and mortally offended at the harsh words of the 'anonymous commentator' and the feared realisation that after last week's pretty damn good performance without him, his roadblock running down the left could be expendable. The skinhead managed to take less than five touches in his attempts at goal, suitably rewarded with two scores, one of which was a plum outside of the foot, inside of the near post job.

Mike huffed and puffed his way through the match, every shoddy shot or struggled control met with a frustrated grunt, it was like watching Wimbledon women, but without the panty upskirts. Or the tennis, erm... He still managed to get on the score sheet as a shot fired across their D, and rebounded off him into their net. Any closer to it and he would've been in the net himself, any further away, and the ball would've probably flown up and hit the moon. On it's way down. {grunt}

The first half ended with us 7-4 down, which was actually a fricking brilliant situation. If Matt had, well, you know, hmm, then even that tight score-line could've been even tighter. Beyonce in latex, I'm looking at you. Even Don had nothing negative to say. And Hell froze over (still warmer than earth, mind).

As Don would sappily say, in a one for all, all for one mantra, we were playing for each other, passing much better, substituting appropriately and defending like a cohesive unit. We were closing down like Woolworths, but still the opposition’s ability to shoot, by anyone from anywhere, pretty much on target every time, was making Matt, wearing his shorts over his trousers, look comic, but not in a superhero kind of way.

In his long forgotten return, Robbie looked not out of place, as the Mollys’ two up, two down formation was working as best it could, but even he couldn’t help getting bounced off by the physical game of the opposition. Using every trick in the hand(off)book, they were stronger and harder than us, not yet aggressively so. Hell they even apologised on occasions, when they thought they’d crossed the foul line, in a competitive but reasonably fair game. They needn’t have worried too much, because the referee wasn’t blowing for shit. Never mind not having ever seen his penis, he’d clearly never seen his elbow, and was obviously confused when said body part was being used as an offensive weapon in the game of FOOTball.

And so bodies hit the floor, as players got tangled up and tired, as the game drew to climax. Leo got decked onto his arse in the top left, as the ref blinked for about ten seconds, but got to his feet in time to see Steve rob the opposition, and send him away for a counter-attack, to drill home a beautiful stunner into the cornerest of the far corner. Leo even had time to follow it up with the exact same shot moments later, but their keeper stuck out a toe to deny him our second of the half.

As the final whistle blew, it didn’t feel like double figures against; it didn’t feel like only five for. We walked away from the match with our heads held high, our chests puffed out. We’d played to our strengths, and limited them to mostly long range shooting that you’d expect Matt to save {cough}. A well-deserved xmas break to warmer climes for the gaffer beckons, leaving behind a kitty dry and unloved. Didn’t Buster go to Spain?

With no Mollys’ Christmas do this year, I plan to celebrate the festive season by visiting lapland - but not the one that has a chained up reindeer, or resembles a muddy car park instead of the North Pole. Though, there are poles where I’m going.