| By Bill Rawlings, Fifi's favourite lover. The sun had shone on a glorious late Spring afternoon. Spirits in this great city of London were high. Good natured drinks were supped in shady beer gardens, ladies of the summer appeared like scantily-clad squirrels emerging from a winter of duffel-coated hibernation. A gentle breeze wafted across the dreamscape of battersea, and the tree-line streets soaked up the last few rays of gentle sunshine. All was well in the World. Fifi L'Amour scowled into the arena alongside a loving duo. Results had gone badly the previous week, but clearly the 'team they love to hate' were very confident. We had only brough three players. A spate of freak injuries and excuses abounded. From grazed knees to gippy tummies, from turned ankles to itchy foreheads, from bruised egos to an inflated sense of their own worth...that's right, Austin had withdrawn. After a swift bout of good natured referee-baiting, and some quite magnificent delaying tactics which basically involved refusing to put the goal up, we were away. We had 4 men, hard and true. We played some of the best football of the season. We were solid, strong in the tackle, determined and stout. We were boring. We needed something. From over the horizon a shadow loomed. A small shadow, but one with great presence, an aura of strength. Up scampered Sunil, and in a flurry of luminescent yellow and twinkle toed trickery he swiftly pulled on his left sock. We battled on. Dipping his left shoulder like a matador toying with a rampaging bull Sunil pulled on the second sock, and before we knew what was happening he had already started considering putting on his shirt. Selflessly Stuart had started a fight. Once on the pitch our tricky debutante twisted and turned, jinked and feinted, rounded their entire team, came back, did it again, scored a cracker, and we'd won 3-1. A consumate team performance of guile, force and skill, and arguably the goal of the night from new boy Kevin following a Holdham Cruyff like flick through ball. Yes, really. The arrogance was back. We swaggered like cocky Frenchmen. There was laughter, frivolity and joy. Captain Connolly regaled us with a slapstick Carry-on-easque tale of keys and girlfriends. We laughed. We clinically punished our next opponents in a professional display of liquid football. The new boys shone like powerful torches, Marios gleamed like a sparkling kitchen worksurface, Rawlings glowed like the Ready Brek kid, Connolly shimmered like the reflection of the moon on a midnight lake. Holdham lost his temper. The trout hurt his hand. Another win. There is an age-old saying in the East End of London, passed on from father to sons. It goes 'Stop showing off, you little bastards'. How we should have listened. Despite a sterling crab-like performance in goal from stand-in keeper Dave Winnan, we were outclassed in the third game. Heads dropped, and Marios' usual bubbly effervescence overflowed into violence. Who would have thought it. Shot down like the clay pigeons we played like. 1-3. Despondently, talk turned to other matters. The tone was subdued, particularly when discussing Stuart's latest rectal complaint. A managerial faux-pas of the highest order led to us practising deep crosses and headers. One game left. The top team to play. We dictated the tempo like an angry flock of irate canaries. We picked and scratched, nibbled and bit. We went one down. At this point we noticed they only had 4 men. Panic set in, and some frenzied arguing. From out of this cocoon of resentment arose a beautiful butterfly of free-flowing football. For a period of 4 minutes our football was genuinely sexually appealing. 3 swift goals later and over half the team had to be subbed for fear of becoming over-aroused. A final score of 4-3, and our work here was done. We congratulated, and changed. We shook hands and stood, shoulders tall. Confident and upright, an imposing team full of comeraderie and power. We strode off the pitch emanating strength and instilling fear and respect. The image was ruined somewhat when they turned out the floodlights and left us floundering in blackness, but I think they got the message. - Bill Rawlings is 45 years of age and was once crowned Queen of Norway. He is available for childrens' magic shows and considers himself a proud colourblind black man. |
| Monday 22nd April 2002 Week Three. |