3:12 Thatcher FC 4/2/10 7.00pm and 3:13 Casa Bonita FC 11/2/10 8.30pm

vs Thatcher FC
LOST 8-5
Leo, Steve, Alan1, James1, Gareth1, Richard2

vs Casa Bonita FC
WON 6-4 (actually 7-4)
Matt, Leo1, Steve1, Alan1, James1, Gareth2, Richard
MAN OF THE MATCH: Steve

So I write this report after the Saints vs Pompey derby. I don't know the result, I was out robbing, whilst the majority of police were pre-occupied with giving directions to the train station. Didn't get much good swag - Primark is hardly the Federal Gold Reserve. Still it was deserved retail therapy to celebrate another Molly victory from Thursday.

The evening had started with Gareth eyeing up some plump lesbian's underpants, and coercing me to have a look too. A grey stretchy number that defied the rules of physics, it was either the biggest pair of pants ever, riding high up into the breasticle area, or a one piece body stocking. It couldn't have been any less flattering, or any more fattering. Is there nothing Primark won't sell?

The team line-up saw the return of Matt to goal, displacing Leo back into the calmer waters of the defence. Having failed in his attempt to be officially crowned the greatest ever Molly Maguires keeper, Leo would just have to content with being the unofficial king instead. Titles are titles after all, paint pots and such like.

Without Matt's considerable presence last week, the match against Thatcher FC could have swung Lindsay Lohan, with an outfield comfortable on the ball to knock it about - precision shooting from Gareth and James; energizer bunnying from Alan and Richard; and Steve directing traffic like a lollipop lady. This however left us light on defensive spatial awareness, and Leo constantly wondering how close to the edge of the D, the opposition shots would be drilled unchallenged at him.

We attacked like a protective homeowner, and the zipping and fizzing dripping from our passes was a sight to behold. Balls zinged and popped across the pitch, as we created constellations throughout the pitch. It was a shame then, that their keeper was successively brilliant with his shot stopping and restricted us to a paltry single goal in the first half. Leo had conceded just the two - long range efforts through crowds of players - that, where credit due, was down to a vibrant, fresh and pack mule work mentality of the outfield in front of him.

We started the second half in blood baying mood, banging in three, like an airtight porn star, before the tide shifted back to the Thatchers, and the scores eventually rip tide to 5 by 5. We were seemingly eager to throw all our eggs into one basket, throw the basket into the kitchen sink; the sink into the bathwater, and then throw the whole lot at the opposition, whilst they snuck up behind us, and punted our exposed baby in the head.

Their goal six, was an unchallenged skimmer from the left edge of the D that Leo, super slim and svelte, slid over. Their seventh, a needless penalty giveaway from Alan that was so far into the D that his leathery hands could be mistaken for gloves. In the end, it wasn't so much a collapse, as a crumble, but it was enough to send us to our oblivion doom.

For tonight's match, Alan and Leo divvied up the substitutions on a five minute -two men on, two men off- rota to ensure we maintained balance in the team at any given moment. Gareth's idea to sub just one player every five minutes was treated with an 'aw bless, lickle boy' pat on the head for thinking for himself.

And so we began the match, against the league's bottom feeders, the scourge of the gutter, Casa Bonita FC. As we nailed four goals past them in the opening 19 minutes, with at least another half dozen chances well saved by their beardiy-weirdy keeper as Gareth, James and Alan all weighed in with some thrusting shooting. Steve had yet another opportunity to shoot his load (just the once per match) as his patented Broughton Bamboozle, saw him step over, and cut back onto the inside line, before another deftly placed goal into the far corner put the Mollys home and dry.

The team were working hard to run against and with their opposite number, as we reverted back to our 1-2-1 formation, with Steve or Leo anchoring the back; and penetrative, yet direct runs were carving up the opposition. Richard proved a useful outlet for Matt's short balls, comfortable to take it, run it down the line, or play a one-two, as we gained ground up the field, whilst still retaining the actual football.

Only a literally last second goal from an opposing player sneaking through our outfield, and shooting through Matt before the defence could close his position, put a dampner on an otherwise well controlled and disciplined first half.

Of course the ref we had was the power-mad loves himself jumped up football nazi, who proved himself so inept at keeping track of such a low scoreline, that he pronounced the half time score as 3-1. Retarded can be such a hostile word. The ref was retarded.

With James struggling to control his annoyance, and the opposition conceding the scoreline and the fact that the ref was a dick, it was still down to the team to ensure that the goal he mugged from us would make do discernable difference to our victory. Gareth smashed home a dubious goal, from a ball that ballooned up onto his arm before his deft finish, and Leo weighed in, with his patented intercept ball from the keeper's throw out to ensure we maintained enough of our supremacy. Leo was blocking nearly every shot coming his way, as their rather obvious attacking game plan was neutralised, and Richard and Alan continued to occupy their defenders down the wings.

The oppositon nearly dragged themselves from the brink. Some careless and risky business in our own half, as we tried too hard to play it out the back resulted in the opposition scrambling in two goals in the last five minutes (I should know as I was off the pitch at the time), but thankfully it was too little too late. Richard broke his winner's hymen, and the team celebrated another victory against a team we deserved and were more than capable of beating.

And that's the sad truth. The team have finally peaked. Four out of six victories against teams we should be expected to beat, for all our experience and know-how, our several years of playing, our attacking swagger and defensive prowess, is the very pinnacle of what we can and should achieve. Can we turn over a team we have no right to beat? Can we match the very best the league can throw at us, if all our powers are at their bestest?

For the record, Steve got the man of the match award free beer voucher, and Leo enjoyed the shandy goodness that doth flow from it. Steve - Man of the Match. Man of the Match Steve. The Match - married to Steve. Steve rules. Greatest player ever during 40 minutes played at 8.30pm on pitch 2 at Goals. Steve a footballing god amongst men. Contractual obligation now fulfilled (it was a tasty pint).