3:4 Cunning Stunts 26/11/09 7pm

LOST 10-2
Matt, Leo, Steve, Alan, James, Rob, Nathan

So it's been many months since I last wrote a report. A combination of writer's block, Blockbuster DVD watching; and just a general despair at our constant defeats, nulled any enthusiasm I had for writing about our inadequacies all the time. Yeah, that's right, I got bored of slagging people off.

Times have changed and the squad has again metamorphosised into another beast of constituent parts, with Rob now a seasoned regular, Nathan a regular sessional, Richard an enthusiastic rookie, and Gareth an occasional cameo-maker. It was therefore a bizzare start to the evening to hear Matt dismay at having too many people in the squad, and his selection headaches, easily able to conjure at least nine players in the right circumstances, with feeder club Skinner FC now fully integrated into the set up.

Despite the economic crisis, as beared witness by my hometown's ex-Woolworths soon to be a f*cking 99p Store, the price of the match fee remains at a constant high, as treasurer Steve balances the books after the man-purse's recent financial beating. Old Steve Grumpton was in a tetchy mood from the off, pouring scorn on the notion of getting drunk on one's birthday, closer to death, loss of innocence and all that, and would later unleash a full on strop at the indiscliplined substituting that resulted in him playing only four minutes of the first half (by Sir Alex's stopwatch anyway), whilst others in the team were moving so lamely, that slugs could crawl up their backsides.

In the spirit of mutual respect, Matt had a pretty faultless game. Only conceding 10 goals against the top side, and making enough genuine close-range efforts, that Leo had no cause to shout obscenities at him, whilst the Molly's latest touchline totty, Mrs Matt watched on, with her handbag at the ready.

There was a minute's silence for that bloke who used to ref games, and play in games, here at Goals, which deserved the same respect as that German keeper who committed suicide by putting himself in front of a train. As Rob so eloquently put it, within ear shot of the ref, to paraphrase, "He's the guy that had an argument with his missus, and threw himself out of the car, smashing his brains in". Whilst heavily under the influence of alcohol.

We too played like our brains had been smeared all over the concrete (see the French film Dobermann for an excellent sequence where a character gets his face scraped along the road from a moving car). There is absolutely no discipline in formation. This isn't rocket science - James up front, Alan on the left, Nathan or Rob on the right to press forward from deep; Leo or Steve hanging in defence. What the f*ck Nathan or Rob are doing as last man when their goalkeeper begins their initial move bears no credibility. If they were hanging back to catch a breather, then they deserved Steve's wrath. In fairness, when Steve was at the back he was shockingly slow, getting caught out, as attackers ran in behind him, and putting in enough professional fouls to make Thierry Henry look like a saintly frog-eating onion-chomper. Like Thierry, Steve admitted that he was a bloody CHEAT.

Rob's powerful shooting was being undermined by his trigger, a left foot so repugnantly off-target, that he could dip his toe into the sea, and still miss the water. James' two-too-many-touch shooting saw him rapidly and regularly closed down, and we do seem to be the only team in this or any league, whose only option from the keeper is the long ball to the front man, off the wall. I dare us, knowing that i'm going to get the most shit from it, to short ball EVERY keeper throwout, barring the obvious direct scoring oppo.

Free-kicks were their usual slow and painful and inaccurate nonsense. Our shooting barely troubled their keeper, and some gilt-edged chances with wide-open goals, when we did manage to fox their keeper, became guilt-ridden f*ck-ups as they went stupidly wide, or hit the bar.

Leo's return was only half a blessing, as he was getting in the interceptions, but failing to take control of the second touch, resulting in the top-heavy opposition attack still profiting from a now split-leg, static defence, summed up superbly with him edging a long pass away from a protruding attacker, only to slither it past a wrong footed Matt for his first own goal of the season.

The opposition were the usual cretins, arguing the toss on every little foul supposedly committed against them (complaints only justified against Steve), and back-heeling the ball away from our free-kick when they were 10-2 up with a minute to go. Congratulations dickwad, your mother raised you well.

There's no improvement in the way this team plays, just a random series of events that gets thrown together, that occasionally produces a positive result through sheer luck. We have so many glory hunters in a team that really, by transference, wouldn't be capable of hunting for porn on the internet. Just once, I'd like to see some positional discipline, even if it's just for the bloody kick-off. The right wing has enough space in it to the build The West Wing. Get over there.

Rant over.