A new Low

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….