No Mercy

Hello again, everyone – another week, another match report. 

Despite the freezing weather, the high turnouts continue as we lurch feet-first into 2017; here are your teams from last Friday:

Yellows – Simon Gas, Steve, Ian Baggies, Danny, Joe, Mario, Tony, Mark, Paul

Blues – Bristol Paul, Alan, Andy, me, Peter, Liam, Mick, Ross, David

As you can see, nine aside there – it was scheduled to be ten plays nine, but a friend of Peter’s with the somewhat unlikely moniker of ‘Braz’ was a late withdrawal.

Although the overall quality of the ensuing match left something to be desired – Tony opined that it was the “worst game of football” he’d ever played in – it was a close encounter, with just the one goal separating the two teams.

Mario scored what was comfortably the goal of the game, picking up a loose ball around the half-way line and chipping the ball sumptuously high into the night sky where it fell like a stone over the despairing head of whichever schmuck happened to be in goal for the Blues at the time. Mick Alan took a dangerous corner that brushed my head and shoulders before arriving sweetly on Liam’s noggin for the Blues’ first goal. 

In fact, Alan was in sparkling form, both assisting and scoring with ease, with a hand in all four of the Blues’ goals. Liam bagged one more courtesy of Alan, before Liam returned the favour with Alan tidying up and scoring after some nimble footwork from his celtic strike partner.

As for the Yellows’ other goals, Mario (?) capitalised on some loose defensive work from Andy and I believe Tony also troubled the scorers.  

The final score of the evening came after Alan yet more sterling work holding the ball up on the far touchline for yours truly to arrive and pass the ball home from close range with what I think it’s fair to describe as an uncharacteristic calmness. 

Final score: Blues 4 – Yellows 3

The major talking point of the evening was the irritating behaviour of two young scamps who spent at least fifteen minutes rolling around in a homoerotic tryst just inside the touchline before eventually getting bored and moving behind the goal to make fun of the middle aged men playing in front of them. Having been threatened with ejection from the arena they then waited until the ball had gone out (having hit the tree above the goal nearest the Foundling Museum), booted the ball as far away from us as they dare and then ran shrieking like a couple of One Direction fans off down the alleyway immediately behind the pitches to a volley of expletives. 

I appreciate that they were just looking for a reaction from us, but if they appear again next Friday we need to engineer a passage of play that involves Ian Gooner and Andy tussling for the ball and subsequently falling onto the pair of the young wretches. As they then lay squirming on the pitch, their breath becoming shallow and their very life-forces slowly ebbing away, they plaintively open the mouths to scream for help, but in vain, as nothing comes out. The two titans of the Coram Fields game rise very s  l  o   w  l  y to their feet, but too late.  As the whelps start to lose consciousness the last thing they’ll see is Tony leaning over their prone figures, wagging his index finger and calmly explaining that this is an inevitable consequence of Disrespecting The Game. There will be no mercy.

See you on Friday, as Simon regales us with tales of Alpine derring-do and evenings spent demolishing fondue.