So, another season of Friday night football ends. Last week’s final game saw a 4-1 victory for the team in bibs, despite the side in colours taking a first minute lead. Andy ‘the Vulture’ swooped ominously onto a delicate through ball from (I think) Mick and after skipping past Paul slammed in a shot past Sam in goal. That was as good as it got for team in colours, however, as despite the efforts of such footballing luminaries as Boro Dave, Mick, Big Dave, Joe and Simon Gas - and a near monopoly in midfield – the combined firepower of Yev and Ross did the damage up front for the team in bibs. 4-1 didn’t really tell the full story of what was a competitive game, but Big Dave’s decision not to take either Ross or Yev as striker proved decisive and although the bibs hit the metalwork and saw plenty of the ball, they couldn’t make that pressure count.
Yev got at least bibs’ goals two of the goals to sign off in style for the Summer, with Ross also appearing on the scoresheet. As Sam opined after the game, it was victory for an innovative 4-0-4 formation. Watch out for it next season.
And so to the real business of the day, as after a brief stop in the Fountains Head for some aperitifs we headed for the Red Dog Saloon in Hoxton Square, (losing Boro Dave and Big Ian for a short time for reasons unclear). The thirteen or so footballers present proceeded to demolish a bewildering array of red meat and chips, with Boro Dave taking on something called the ‘Devastator’. I can’t find details of what this leviathan of the burger world contained, but suffice to say that it looked as if it would ‘devastate’ your waist line for the foreseeable future. There was some sort of challenge associated with the burger’s consumption which entailed getting through a milkshake and large fries, but Dave eschewed such frippery and stuck to the meat.
After the first three pitchers of lager disappeared in record time it would appear that at least three of us took it upon ourselves to order two more, with the net result that we ended up with enough beer to refloat the Cutty Sark. Inevitably, it all got drunk, alongside some digestif whiskeys. At this point our behaviour lurched into the realms of boorishness, as in response to another table of diners singing ‘happy birthday’ we broke into a series of songs extolling the virtues of Simon George: from the ubiquitous ‘one Simon George’ to ‘Simon George on the wing’ to ‘Oooohhh, Simon Simon; Simon, Simon, Simon, Simon Geo-orge’. The staff told then told us to shut up, not unreasonably.
And what had Simon done to warrant such adulation? In addition to organising another year of football fun on Friday evenings, he had picked up the tab for 13 gourmet burgers and an ocean of lager. Truly, a Prince among men. After some toasts to absent friends and then our wives and girlfriends Danny deservedly picked up the gong for player of the season to unanimous acclaim.
Until August, here’s to the British Summer and most of all to Simon.
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