I was handed the poisoned chalice of team selection last Friday following the previous week’s mismatch, but it was no easy task. This was due in part to the fact that from a veritable orgy of goal-scoring talent available on the 24th February, Friday March 2nd saw an altogether more sterile line-up, with Boro Dave being the lone gunslinger on a field of misfiring cowboys. The other factor which made selecting two even teams something of a challenge was that one of our number had prepared for the game by sinking seven pints of Porter – that’s right, Porter - in a bender which had started at around 12.30. Presumably this was 12.30 pm on the 2nd March 1837. If I tell you that the imbiber of this vat of neo-stout was Ian Gough you will appreciate that the impact this amount of alcohol would have on his performance was difficult to gauge.
As it was, he took to the field slightly late alongside namesake Ian Geary and settled in what would I would probably describe as an outside-left position (left outside the pub, perhaps) and provided the x factor in the eternal equation if
(Beer + football) = x+ Goal
Vomit?
Laudably, Ian did not need to redecorate the side of the pitch with the contents of this stomach, but instead provided a lovely retro cameo which included two goals and a brief spell in goal. He also terrified the two young ringers who were drafted in to make up the numbers – Khaled and young Sam – to the extent that I don’t think they came within a radius of 15 feet of him. It was as if the ghosts of George Best and Garrincha were hovering on the edge of play, swaying giddily in the cold night air and bringing the mischievous spirit of football times past to bear in this brutally modern age.
What of the other goals, I hear you ask? Well, it finished 9-6 to the team that included both Boro Dave, who bagged a two minute hat-trick, part of a four goal haul, and the aforementioned Ian Gough. Making up the numbers were myself, although my contribution was stymied following a 50-50 challenge with Simon ‘Rockfeet’ Gas, who has left my big toe looking like an aubergine, in addition to young Sam, Alex and Danny.
Shamefully, neither myself nor Danny could find the net on an evening when even a man who’d got through seven pints of Porter (who drinks Porter in 2012? Was this some sort of tribute to the bicentennial of Dickens’ birth?) still managed to bag a brace, although Ian’s second was a comedic moment when he drunkenly shied at the ball and the other Ian G in goals cocked his leg up and allowed the ball to trundle underneath and into the unguarded net. Alongside Ian Geary wearing Bibs were Dan, Khaled, Simon Gas, Steve A and Joe, relieved of team selection for the week.
There were few other memorable moments, although all the goal scorers will fondly recall their own contributions. Ian Gough tottered off victorious at the end, although how much he will recall is a moot point.
Just the four chaps made it to the Old Fountain’s Head – me, Simon Gas, Danny and Steve – and once again it was packed to the rafters. I expect that it’s a sign of getting old, but the clientele seem to be getting younger every week, with lots of pretty girls with pixie haircuts and retroussé noses alongside young blades with thrilling facial hair and shoulder bags. What’s wrong with that? Nothing at all, although quite what they’d make of a man who’d quaffed seven pints of Porter and played a game of football is anyone’s guess. Amazeballs, as the young people say.
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