3:14 F.C.U.K. 18/2/10 8.30pm

LOST 13-3
Matt, Leo, Steve, Alan, James, Gareth

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).

The Wednesday League we left behind

3:11 Cunning Stunts 28/1/10 7.00pm

LOST 15-4
Matt, Leo, Steve, Alan, James, Richard

Wow. It was hyped as something special, sonething unique. A football match in 3D. Shame then that I was watching Pompey versus West Ham live at Fratton Park, and the only ooh I could muster was when the ball came right at you, as Diamanti banged it into row Z, and the aah, from my little toes freezing off, sitting in the away stand on a cold Tuesday night, thinking this shit hole is a death trap if a fire starts, and then wishing a fire would start, so I could get warm.

On second thoughts, seeing Rooney's face right there in front of you, and then embarassing yourself, as you took an air-swing at it, was probably something to miss. As the transfer window closes, and my beloved Hammers pull the dust cover off two debatable strikers in M&M (McCarthy and Mido), quite frankly the last few days have not been the best week of my footballing year.

It was an abject display from The Mollys. Everything that we could get wrong we did - all our faults and inadequacies laid bare, by a lively Stunts team, that played the ball around our staticness, not so much creating space, as simply moving into it. They played from the back, occupied the defenders on either flank, and then popped the ball off, to a third man, who'd snuck into the danger zone. Our formation, so prevalently good in previous weeks was not fit for purpose tonight, but we were never cogniscent to change it. Matt still floundered, still surprised, at shots coming at him from distance, from the league's top scorers, who had skill on the ball, to shoot from distance, in a game, where footballs get shot from distance, at the goalkeeper, that is what is Matt.

We failed to protect the edge of the D, a fistful of goals being scored without any illusion of defending, and despite Alan's battle-cry to "call the man through", whatever that meant, we just lacked the pace, and inclination to follow our men. Leo had an appalling game in whatever area of the pitch he found himself in, throwing in a desperate studdy challenge, and a ludicrously dippy back-heel goal attempt, that saw him dragged all over, without any redeeming features. James scored the first goal of the match, with a classic counter-attacking goal-hang, but lacked any real firepower to create his own chances, or the able support to finish them. We were too isolated from each other, and we never had anyone central enough to pass through the middle - frustratingly trying to run down the flanks, but Richard, Alan, and James, finding the corner wall, and not a lot else.

Steve put in a half-decent display, and won a poignant tackle against their lug, before squaring for James to score in the classiest Molly move. But the attacking assertions resulted in too much fall back from the outfield, and defending balls deep invited the opposition to camp in our half, and proclaim Matt, their dartboard bitch. Richard tried to call the plays, and run the flanks, but high energy alone wasn't enough to shake the coinicidence that in five or six matches, he's always been a loser. And with Alan unable to hold up the ball, and no wing support anyway, our attack boiled down to Matt's counter-attacking throwouts, and we know how successful they are.

I'd hoped for something a little better than the 10-2 defeat last time out, but this was much worse, and a 1-2-1 formation may have made us more able to mirror their attacks with our defence, but without one of our 'star' players, we just didn't have the skill factor to occupy their defence, and catch our breaths. Sure, they pushed and shoved us a bit, and even clipped our heels, in the most unprofessional of behaviour, but the class that's seen them take 30 points from 30, was definitely in session tonight.

As for next week, Matt has relinquished captaincy, and isn't on the team sheet. Rumours that he slept with a team-mate's ex-partner, and paid for the abortion are patently untrue. My boyfriend can't get pregnant. Oops, too late to get a super-injunction for that last comment?

Tackle of the Match 21/1/10

3:10 Leggers 21/1/10 8.30pm

Won 7-3
Matt, Leo2, Steve, Alan2, James3, Jason

It was Friday night and I was watching the news, whilst drinking a Bud. And no, I wasn't at home alone; I was in one of those bars, where they always know my name, on a barstool looking up at the TV mounted near the ceiling, waiting for some random hot girl to come over and start a conversation. "Hey, Woody, can ya turn the volume up?" I said to the barman. It was all bad news: couple of evil little kids torturing other kids; mother pretending her son was ill for fame and fortune; terrorist threat alert is 'severe'. A random hot girl leans toward me, and purrs, "Gee, I wish you could give me some good news to cheer me up". And so I told her of what I did the evening before.

It couldn't be possible to win three games on the bounce, could it? Not since I put that X into the top right hand corner to win a game of noughts and crosses against my 6 year old niece, has there been a greater thrill of a three in a row victory. With Matt bemoaning a lack of response, to his call for players, in an email so stinging my eyes watered, like an onion shoved up one's bum, we had a six man squad ready to do battle against a mid-range team in Leggers, who would provide a useful watertide mark, to our sinking or swimming in this league. We'd lost at least twice previously against them, including a turgid 12-1, so we were entitled to expect nothing.

James played despite his poorly thumb, and Jason cameoed, in a role that would see him have to do the flashy stuff, on his own, without the support of a Gareth or Nathan. As it was, the formation took care of itself, with Leo and Steve finally having a near flawless game on the left and right sides of the defence - the team actually suffering if either one was not on the pitch. This was because, the 2-2 square formation played exactly to our strengths - Alan on the left, and James on the right, with Jason the all-encompassing fitter-inner.

A solid defensive display from front to back, rarely allowed the opposition to get beyond the back line, as the sqaure metamorphosised into a rhombus when needed. Indeed the opposition rarely threatened down the middle, attempting to wing it down the flanks, and getting caught up in the tangled melee that was Steve on the right, and the polarised magnet that was Leo on the left. Leo set the thumping benchmark by winning an early 50-50 tackle, that saw his opposing number jar his knee and proned crippled on the ground. To say Leo has form for disabling players, in fair legitimate hardman ways, is like boasting that..... er, that's it. Boasting. Up front Jason was steadily holding up the ball, usefully forming link-up play with Alan and James, as they galloped through the opposition who seemed to have no discernable formation, except one that got consistently neutralised by ours.

It was a while before either team got going, shots were flying wide, feelers were being put out there. Shots that did find Matt's D, found Matt's eye, as he contrived to have as near a perfect and fab game as possible. All it took was Robbie saying how great he was to instill some confidence into our already full gaffer, and his best games have kept coming.

A 2-1 lead at half-time was a result of some steady play from the Mollys - we barely countered the oppposition, because the opposition barely attacked us with sufficient speed, or over commitment to allow so. In fact, we arguably played more build-up play from the back than ever before, and because the game was played at a fair and friendly clip, there was plenty of time on the ball.

Second half, we just continued to play in much the same way, but we were getting more penetrative, and whilst Jason wasn't getting his shots into the net (despite smashing the crossbar from behind the halfway line), he was playing useful provider, as both Alan, skimming shots in from tight angles, and James finally disguising his obvious going-to-shoot body position, clocked in the goals needed to pull us away. With Leo finishing the rout, with a couple of shots served on a plate from his team-mates on the edge of the unmarked D, it was a satisfying and superb victory. A 7-3 scoreline was just dessert for an excellent team effort, and dragged the Mollys into 4th place in an arbitrary league table, that barely makes sense beyond the top two.

I relayed this wonderful story of triumph and feel-good to the random hot girl in the bar. She said it didn't contain enough jokes or sexual innuendos, and told me to fuck off. Damn; even in my imagination I can't catch a break.

Goal of the Match 14/1/10

3:9 Millbridge 14/1/10 7.45pm

WON 13-7
Team: Matt, Leo, Robbie, Steve, Alan, Dan, Gareth
Supporters: James, Nathan, Jason, Don

This report very nearly didn't happen. It nearly didn't happen because it was touch and go (incidently the technique for feeling up girls in crowded nightclubs) whether I was going to well enough to play tonight. The match very nearly didn't happen because no one seemed capable of saying yes when Matt was pleading for players. I'd already planned on putting together a filler report about how to look good with mucus and migraine, packed with descriptive delights of the various colours that snotted out of my nose - green, black, hint of blood, vimto pink, lemsip yellow. I've often thought that when I come down with a cold, I should empty my sinuses into a pint glass, and fill it up, then take pictures of it, and post it on the net. But in the end, the match took place, and I played.

Having been afforded a generous lift by Steve to the ground (as my buggering car's battery has died from frostbite), and sucking up the warm atmosphere of being sealed in a comfy coffin rolling into the flames, we arrived at Goals to find not the just-about-enough-players to make up a squad, but almost the entire Molly back catalogue from the last couple of seasons, with only Richard and Rob the only noticeable absences. Those selected to play whiffed of Molly Classic, an old school line-up with the only exception of Dan. Dan. Dan. Dan. Dan. Dan! Dan! Dan! Dan! DAN! DAN! (Alan Patridge reference you pitchside morons...). Robbie's window salesman wedding photographer friend returned to play only his second game for the team since almost this time last year - see Gaffer's Gob match report 4/2/09 - to throw useful shapes on the right wing.

So with an enthusiastic cheerleading squad hurling supportive insults, including an injured James, with a wrapped up thumb damaged in a drunken mong, the Mollys took to the pitch against a relatively new team, with expectations not to f*ck it up too much. We were aided in no small part by playing against a team who had no real designated keeper, who gave away a needless direct free kick on the edge, and a penalty; and having that over-officious referee again, who missed his opportunity to warn our team and Gareth, in particular, that he wasn't gonna take any s*it, like the trumped up facist he was.

First half, was a closer affair than needed to be, ending 6-5. We were trying to find a compatible formation for the personnel at disposal, and whilst it was straight forward to shift Dan onto the right wing, and Alan on the left, and Robbie rooted at the back, everyone else needed to hone into a position. With Gareth being the focal point of a lot of our attack play, we produced some excellent twitch touch football, that saw Dan and Alan linking up with the no longer teen wonder. Dan was his usual competent self, but again seemed reluctant to pull the trigger when the head shot opportunity presented itself, whilst Alan was actually keeping the ball down, and putting the outside of his right boot efforts into the back of the net, with some glorious pass and go forward play.

The second half, we shifted through the gears, with Matt desperate to have his half a clean sheet, as the opposition initally probed without success. We still were occupying their backline, even Steve was utilising the freedom afforded to him by Robbie's human anchorage, as he at least twice stepped over the ball in his own half, fooling his marker, before stumbling to an inadequate conclusion. Leo was favouring the more direct approach, just hammering shots goalwards with his patented right side foot, and coming in off the left back position with scoring usefulness.

Eventually we suffered a mini-collapse (mini like a baby boy's winkie), the opposition scoring two whole goals in quick succession, that for once left us fretting over nothing, as the margin of our lead, and the comfort on the ball we displayed saw little of the panic normally associated with the Mollys. We were even scoring goals that weren't being connected with properly, bouncing and fumbling into the net, as our luck and their keeper made crap-saving babies.

It was a good, solid victory against a rookie opposition, and the feeling of elation of another fine team effort producing victory was again something that needed to be duly savoured. A fine cameo from Gareth allowed the team to flow through the moves, without the constant pressure of our attacks breaking down and the back foot always being the most heavily tread. Now if only we could put three wins in a row together....

7th January 2010

3:7 F.C.U.K. 17/12/09 9.15pm

WON 11-9
Matt, Leo, Alan, James, Rob, Nathan

We were almost there last time in our 6-5 defeat. We were but the bridesmaid, as a game we trailed 5-3 at half-time to level it up with barely a few minutes to go, before the crushing inevitability of being put back on the shelf. But never is there a greater truism than catching the bouquet and the consequences thereof, and so this week we finally married lady victory, threw her onto the bridal bed, put a ring on it, and declared "I'm your mister eleven, baby!" before sinking our {EDITED FOR EXPLICIT CONTENT}

With Skinner FC dominating the attacking options, it was left to Team Leo (sod your Edwards and Jacobs) to do the primary defending, and Matt to let in the long range shots.

It was cold, my car wouldn't start, and some serious hat and glove wearing was going on amongst the team, as we took on FCUK, who had a reasonable pedigree of beating teams in the lower half of the table. They were young, they had pace, and they popped the ball around along an invisible border in the final third, as we defended goal side of them like a Bengals back line.

The opposition's insistence on all out attack, exposing their inadequate keeper to some comical fumbles (and a throwout that bounced out off our front man squirming back into the net easily making Danny Dyer's Desperate Christmas Cash-In Cock-Ups), played into the hands of the Skinner machine, the eight-legged V8-engined beast finally looking like something that would give Tetsuo a problem, and less like the individual plastic components of a Constructicon Gobot. Alan and James led the front line like single moms at a River Island sale, whilst Nathan and Rob were happy to snipe targets further back - both smashing in corking long-range belters that even moving the goal back another 20 yards would have done little against. Indeed, our attacking arrogance was much in evident, with Nathan consistently laughing off the opposition's attempts to nibble at the ball, and Rob declaring he was the master of the universe, and the one time previously that his shooting was dogshit, was just that - one time.

At the back, defending was going on. It was a blur really. We were standing off the opposition a fair bit to entice their shooting (and then counter them, as is our way) but getting the short range blocks in. However the long range stuff saw Matt watching the shots sail by him into the corners. Still any game where Matt concedes less than double figures against a team above us is normally, on balance, a good match for him, and that was despite him allowing a ball to bounce in off him at his near post, and Leo toeing in (another) own goal. So really, actually, the defending from front to back was actually actually pretty good actually, with enough pace and energy in the side to turn a half-time lead, into a one goal deficit back into a two goal victory.

You know its been a long time coming for a win, when Mrs Alan tells you that her husband finally comes home beaming with happy pride, the bed springs getting a suitable workout. But like any marriage, we still need to work at it, and one night of glorious honeymoon passion, doesn't really guarantee more than a bi-monthly cop-a-feel of lady victory's amazingly w{EDITED FOR EXPLICIT CONTENT}