| Bad tempered bad losing cut kneed bulging blistered referee abusing unabashed knobs. Just you try and deny it. The drawbridge of hate lifted and we crossed into Angryville. That'll learn us. In we trot, tails raised, thinking we can piss on fires we didn't start. Well let me tell you, Mr. L'Amour, you're a fraudster, a faker, a great fumbling funbag. We deserved to be shot. And nearly were. Our clunking joints clatterered and groaned from game one, as teams of cunts came by the truckload and conquered us. Big lolloping gangly talent-starved twats with plums stuck in their mouths and sir's seaman still warm up their arses. And we let it happen. We let them be our sirs. Squabbles and digs and blame flying about like a an angry wasp. Stuart accused, Bill snaggered, Marios was full of chillie con carne and spat kidney beans into the flame of dissent. Austin was taut and sour, Captain connolly was akimbo and The Trout had blistered gills. As we were held to two draws and two listless defeats, the Beast - on the touchline bejeaned and alledgedly flued (doesn't flu put you in bed?) - revelled in the missing link he claimed we required. OK Beast, we admit it, you're the missing link. But that's got nothing to do with football. The situation deteriated in a spiral of bad blood. Marios was felled and lashed a left leg of spite into the face of his oppressor. Holdham launched a tirade of nonsense on stilts at a beguiled Yardie referee. I'll shoot you mo' fo'. When it came to the point at which Holdham began salivating wild man's saliva and chanting garbled Hebrew incantations, we decided we had to prize him away from his prey. What few high points we reached were scaled down and sealed up in a borstal by all of our wrong-doings and blameful shames. I thought we were nice boys. |
| Monday 15th April 2002 Week Two. |
| Monday 8th April 2002 Week One. |
| Battersea's waters had broken and from shores afar we were born. We'd arrived. Too fucking early. Ben 'The Trout' Russell scampered from entrance to entrance, that tickling feeling in the pits of his Location Manager's stomach - the same tickling feeling he got when he accidentally sent a Blind Date couple to Moorgate instead of Mauritius. Despite not having a ball and spending the warm-up wandering around like playground fleabag outcasts, we took to the field with the sort of pride only men wearing daffodil-yellow shirts can. We spouted glibly. We rallied exuberantly, and we swore like gypsies. Game on. Game one. A four-man opposition, spirited through depletion, persistent while awash with yellow. We imagined the worst, and its reality smacked our chops like a duck's flipper. One down. Surely not. Captain Connolly roared his hype with the strangled desire of Ghandi in his last throws of starvation. Russell was a trout out of his depth and drowning in strange waters. Austin puffed and mis-passed like an out-of-sorts Geoff Thomas. And nobody wants that. Then. Then it clicked. We understood the length, the width, the surface and all its glorious impediments. Captain Conolly's CPM count (Cruyffs Per Minute) soared, Rawlings offered, gathered, collected and thundered. Russell leapt and wiggled like a mid-air epileptic and Simon scurried with a bovine sense of hygene. We were level. We led and we won. In your face, Elms 5-a-side. Game two. Marios hindered, hurried, gathered, grabbed and grunted. Goal. Goal. Goal. Goal. Goal. Goal. It was sleek and smooth with the rough edge of incision. Simon's chin was at last, warm. We broke them down like an effervescent vitamin C tablet, as our bubbles broke for freedom and rose above all. Frankly, I liked the cut of our jib. Game three. Suddenly grit and gruel. Holdham held them - his rubanesque figure grappling and grabbing like an Embankment refugee's plea for money. Connolly barked alsation war-cries and Marios' distemper once again rose into red mist and the confusion of tackles with knives on. The Trout streched and parried, the sphere rolling away from his strewn wreck - accross the line...accross the line...all the way accross the line and into the safety of controversy. A free kick, we gape, they blast, one down. Our struggle is our passion, and our passion is an equaliser scored by someone or other (who was it?). Then Austin struck a spear of a shot through the heart of their net. Hold on. Hold on. Oh cunt. 2-2. |