By default
And now the conclusion of The Molly Maguires….
Life is full of mysteries. It’s quintessential to us as human beings to be curious, to be inquisitive, to learn. And so my match reports have been infrequent, not because I’m lazy, but because I’ve been pondering those riddles that keep me awake at night, whilst I jam my clenched fist into my forehead in statuesque symbolism.
Questions like: Whatever happened to Sunny Delight? Which black hole has Nathan tumbled into? Why can’t I stop playing Heartbreaker by Pat Benatar on Guitar Hero World Tour? Why do women’s trousers have a small triangle cut out of them where the waist band meets the small of the back? How can seeing three current West Ham playing together in the same England eleven still feel disappointing? Was it really necessary having four pictures in The Echo, of that spotty teenage moustached Saints oik leading the Lowe Out protest? When did zombies stop being reanimated corpses, and instead became anyone getting bitten by the host of a blood infection?
With another sodding game cancelled, it gives me a chance to breathe, and reflect on the last few weeks.
Let me tell you first of all, that seeing Don’s cellulitis in the flesh in all its manky red bulbous glory, haunts my every waking hour. It just made we want to grab a bread knife, and serrate his leg off. And whew, the man’s foot, like the remains of a giant bronzed Greek statue’s sandaled foot.
We won a while back playing against Ali Jazeera FC. Leo scored four goals of superb quality smashing up and down the right wing, whilst over on the left wing, Robbie’s friend (Yes that’s right, not a male escort. They went to Centre Parcs together, don‘t you know) Dan was building snowmen and ploughing through on goal to extremely good effect. A free beer winning performance by Gareth, and a cultured display at the back by The Turk saw off a team bereft of their black Ronaldo, and made everyone feel jolly pleased about it.
Matt tried to chat Dan up in the bar afterwards, gaining his mobile phone number with the haste and dexterity of a football player wading through a nightclub full of Geordie trollope, in the hope of future appearances from the useful midfielder. But alas, so many have spurned the big man’s advances, will this be unrequited too?
We’ve also had a couple of 10-0 default wins recently, which is like spunking in your pants, whilst making a cup of tea.
More recently we lost again to the Sniffers. A tight first half, again, for the third time, gave way to a shambolic second. Little Mike and James were leading from the front, with Leo and Alan on the wings, and Steve shuffing around at the back.
Again, we were tactically moribund. Steve’s restrained mobility, conscious or otherwise, is putting the team at greater risk. He can’t be left alone at the back, because he frequently got his lights punched out and mugged, but the trademark shimmy step-overs in midfield are taking too long to process, like waiting behind a queue of pensioners at the post office. He’s become the conundrum that needs solving, again.
It was just impossible to work out where anyone was meant to be. At times we had three at the back, even Little Mike was playing within our side of the pitch (yeah, I couldn’t believe it either), but this was the most impressive and unselfish match the freeloader has had for a while. He differentiated between the passing and shooting options with greater skill, and looked sharp against their keeper.
Ah, their keeper. He preferred to use his feet. A lot. He let shots slide through his air-kicking legs like a lazy prostitute, and patrolled his area like he was eyeing kerb-crawlers. But he was reasonably protected by his defenders, fast and fit, even though some of the goals we scored were straight smashes into the corners.
What’s the most interesting metaphor for sexual intercourse I’ve heard uttered at Goals? “I went home and capsized the missus”.
James again put in a good shift, fearless having suffered a fractured finger on his last run out, and is now becoming a useful addition to the squad. Sure, he got some rough treatment from the opposition, and the ref showed some real class *sarcasm* to rebuke him for his protests, but he’s slowly mind-melding with the rest of the team, and a good hat-trick puts him in the frame for the vacant second striker slot.
Alan looked ring rusty, nursing his broken shoulder of rib, and Leo injected some energy into proceedings, but still fell between the stools of attacking and defending; jack of both, master of neither.
There was a hilarious moment in a match a few weeks back, probably in a game we lost - the opposition in those matches always seem to be the biggest bitches - when some tosser, accused me of fouling him as he tumbled to the ground on to his backside. The conversation went something like this:
TOSSER: “FOUL!!”
ME: “He fell over, ref!”
TOSSER: “I fell over, my arse!”
ME: “Yeah that’s right, you did!”
ZING!!
Moments later, he slipped and fell over onto his backside again, when literally no-one was near him. “You did it again!” I cackled with glee.
Anyway back to this match, and I was off the pitch, catching my breath when I asked one of Sniffers players - the fat bald moron who TWICE couldn’t take a centre-kick properly - about their game against the Local Lads. Now we’d lost against the division leaders 16-5; Sniffers had lost 14-3; and I was expecting some sort of humble response about getting turned over by a better side, but no, I got some macho bullshit about how they’d beaten better teams, and that they just had a bad game, and a poor start. Small dick probably.
So here ends the round-up. I’m going back to my darkened room to contemplate some more of life’s riddles, or just play some more Professor Layton on my Nintendo DS.
