It seems like I’m always apologising for the delay or dearth
of match reports recently, but I’ve no option other than to begin by stating
that this post contains two reports as I’ve been so busy what with one thing
and another, the another being work and the one thing being my family. Don’t
worry; I’ve not fallen into some sort of post-Trump ennui – I’m old enough to
remember Ronald Reagan getting elected as US President, so I know that
Americans electing people totally unsuited for public office is not without
parallel. This is a country which has Arnold Schwarzenegger as a state
governor, lest we forget. Why would we be surprised by the latest turn of
events?
Back to the football. The game two Fridays ago represented a
new low, hence the image above – never in the decade I’ve been playing football
on a Friday night have I seen people leaving the pitch before the final whistle
en masse, (if three people can qualify as a masse). The teams were completely
wonky thanks to people saying they were coming, then not coming, then coming afterall
but instead of someone else who was supposed to be coming. Ergo, we ended up
with Peter and Patrick on one team, while his brother John transmogrified into
Callum. Oh, and Yev was late, just to put the tin hat on things.
That said, the two teams were
unbalanced – I didn’t hear Tony, who was on the victorious team, offer to
change things, but I’ll take him at his word as he insisted after the game that
he had made this offer on the half hour mark. As it was, a team with Mick,
Peter, Patrick saw off the opposition boasting the not inconsiderable attacking
talents of Liam, Mario and Callum by something like 9 goals to 1. Callum got
the one, with Peter and Patrick being the chief beneficiaries of their
opponents’ defensive largesse.
In actual fact, the winning side’s final two goals arrived
after Mario, Simon Gas and Ian had all deserted the ship, with Simon Gas
scurrying after a fitful Mario to let him into the changing rooms and Ian
Gooner deciding that he’d seen enough to warrant further participation. In
mitigation, the losing team (posterity forgets which colour they donned) did
keep the score at 3-0 for about 10-15 minutes, but they never got hold of the
ball in midfield and featured very few ‘defenders’ worthy of that mantle.
Funnily enough, the final few minutes saw the losing team
threaten more than when they were at full strength, but it’s probably a game
best consigned to the dustbin of history, (including cyberspace). Onwards. And
thanks to Paul for the sympathetic email.
Slightly lower numbers were present this Friday just gone,
although we had enough for seven aside. Simon Gas heroically made it back from
Madrid in time for kick off, complete with novelty straw trilby. His arrival
left the two teams like this:
Blues: Michele, Patrick, me, Mick, David, Simon Gas, Bristol
Paul
Yellows: Ian Baggies (welcome back!), Mario, Paul, Tony,
Danny, Alan, Ross
(No Scotsmen
this week; obviously all at home shouting into their salty porridge).
There was a little shilly-shallying to begin with as Tony’s
slight lateness saw me start for the Blues, briefly join the Yellows and then
return for the Blues, but I think it’s fair to say that this had a negligble
effect on proceedings. There was another deluge of goals this week, although
there were more evenly distributed that the previous game. In a break from the
conservative and orthodox style of match reporting, I’m opting for a kind of ‘beat’
non-linear reportage which is more akin to freeform jazz than the restrictive
oom-pah-pah of traditional match write-ups.
Mario got the goal of the game, and quite possibly the
season, by seizing on a loose ball in the centre circle and pinging it
deliciously into the night sky whereupon it fell like an Autumn leaf over Simon
Gas’s shoulder and just inside the crossbar. A close second was a score from
Tony – I was tracking his run with subtle caution when he shaped to shoot from
around 20 yards. ‘Go on, then’ I thought. And go on he did, the ball sailing
off Tony’s left foot and nestling into the top corner. The Yellows may have had
all the best tunes in terms of goals, but the Blues had more tracks to fill an
album and bar an odd ten minute spell in the middle of the game when Mick,
Patrick and Michele were clearly comparing sleeve notes and radical finger
placements on their instruments, the Blues hit the strings more often than
their counterparts and ultimately blew their horns harder than their opponents.
Michele and Patrick shared the lion’s share of the goals for the Blues, linking
up time and again to slot, ping and scat the ball home. Mick, as bandleader,
cajoled and threatened and eventually conceded that his maverick son was
playing his own way by eschewing some of the more obvious passes to his father
and team-mate. In one move he demonstrated his attacking élan by swerving over
a delicious twenty yard cross to his father’s feet; the father being so proud
of his son’s skill he couldn’t overcome his proud tears to pass the ball into
the net from about three yards.
What else happened? Not much, other than I managed to get on
stage for the encore and steer the ball past Ross in goal.
Final score: Something like 9 – 5 to the Blues. But scores
are for squares, man!
And so the pub, which was showing the England v Scotland
game. A Caledonian vision in pink were bested by a very poor English team which scored with three headers to get past the auld enemy, and with Raheem Sterling contriving
to miss an open goal in a manner which would have had the Coram Fields contingent
shaking their heads. The only other pubchat worth reporting was of the
existence of celebrity Bristol Rovers’ fans. I give you Roni Size and Rod Hull
(not sure about the Emu). Oh, and Ian Holloway, who they could probably do with
as manager, never mind fan, judging by the result at the New Den last Saturday.
Until next time….
