Toe pokes and elbows

Greetings, all. Another healthy turnout this week, with twenty players vying for position on the field. Tony was a late replacement for Ian Gooner, who had overdone it the night before. (Quelle surprise).

On what proved to be a balmy late Spring evening, here are your two teams:

Yellows: Paul of the Antarctic, Simon Ink, Joseph, Ed, Tony, Danny, Ross, David, Alex and Liam

Blues: Andy, me, Steve, Simon Gas, Mick, Alan, Mario, Andrea, Will and Yev

Yev arrived just the few minutes late this week, so the sides were spared any tinkering or rejigging and a very good game ensued. Mick did his best Sergeant Major impression by barking orders throughout proceedings, particularly at me and Steve, while a battle royale in midfield saw the delicate passing and superior movement of Will and Andrea up against the more Anglo-Saxon muscularity of Alex and Danny, with Ed stretching play from the left. Both attacks also looked well-stocked, with Liam performing his usual role as striker-cum-mosquito for the Yellows, ably supported by Ross. Meanwhile the Blues had the Hiberno-Italian combination of Alan and Mario and it was the latter combination that proved the difference on the night.

I believe that Alan opened the scoring, the first of a very impressive hat-trick, while Liam scored the first goal for the Yellows. Alan’s second was the first of two headers, before Steve scored with a David Narey-esque toe-poke – a pleasing series of cushioned headers between Steve, Mario and Andrea ended with Steve crashing home a twenty hard piledriver that evaded both David and Simon Ink in goal, who could only coyly lift his right ankle in response.

This turn of events incensed Alex, who roared forward in reply, screaming in anger as he evaded tackles and other efforts to stop him before rolling the ball to Liam, who calmly prodded home. Alan wasn’t finished, however, and stooped once more to head home from a right-wing centre from Andrea to complete the scoring and make it 4-2 to the Blue team.

Relatively little controversy this week bar a couple of disputed shouts for free-kicks, one against Alan for brushing Tony’s ankle and one called for when Liam and Simon Gas came together in a fair if concussive 50:50. There is a general sense of bones and tendons being increasingly endangered in recent weeks, a by-product of large turnouts, warmer weather and greater anger. Maybe it’s pre-referendum anxiety in the form of elbows.  Still, all’s fair in love and sport.

Despite the sultry weather, I heroically managed to eschew the pleasures of the Skinners this week in case I needed to drive my wife to the maternity ward, but I assume that a very pleasant evening was had by all.

See you all soon.  

The unstoppable force meets the immoveable object

Welcome back, footballers.

Simon sent me no fewer than twenty names to sort out this week and this is what I came up with, Player Attributes Selection System notwithstanding:

Yellows: Tony, Steve, Bristol Paul, me, Peter, Alex, Liam, Chris, Andy, Mark

Blues: Simon Gas, Joseph, Paul of the Antarctic, Will, Danny, Mick, Patrick, Ed, Simon Ink, Mario

Plenty of people, but as the main man says, quality players will find their own space.

After last week’s goal-scoring bonanza, this Friday saw a far more sober and grown-up match, with just the four goals. Peter opened proceedings by ramming in a trademark fierce shot from wide on the right, but the lead wasn’t held for too long. 

Tony spent virtually the entire game in goal for the Yellows as he continues his recovery from injury, while Steve and Bristol Paul were on sentry duty at the back. Simon Gas spent much of his game in goal at the other end, where he was ably protected by the twin defensive sentinels of Joseph and Paul. As such, with both defences in good shape, the real contest was in midfield, where Alex, Chris and Peter vied for supremacy with Will, the Iniesta of the Fylde Coast, his fellow Lancastrian Danny, and young Patrick, playing a rare game in tandem with his old man.

Up front, Liam ploughed a very lonely furrow for the Yellows, as he struggled to do very much with the relentless bombardment of long, high, balls, particularly as he was being marked by Joseph, who has around five inches in height on him. At the other end Mario was lurking at the edge of the D, looking to seize on anything loose which he could despatch with characteristic accuracy and violence.

It may well have been Mario who scored the Blues’ first goal – for the life of me I can’t recall – but having threatened to take advantage of some rare defensive confusion between Tony and Steve, very much in the ‘after you, Claude’ vein, Bristol Paul was mugged in defence and duly punished. Worse was to come for the Yellows; Tony was so busy barking orders at his defence that he failed to spot Simon Ink advancing through the midfield with all the stealth of a Chieftain tank, and equally failed to pick up the ensuing ‘shot’, which bounced and trundled through the assorted defenders before skipping across the line as Tony stood and stared. 2-1 to the Blues.

The Yellows thereafter spent the remainder of the game trying to get back on terms, although despite the not inconsiderable talents and athleticism of Alex and Peter, the Yellows continued to hold firm. While Chris looked the most likely source of a decent centre from which to equalise, it was eventually the shaven-headed Tottenham fan who got the all-important fourth goal, capitalising on my efforts to get past Ed to slam the ball home past Simon Gas in nets. Two apiece.

With the clock winding down there was one final talking point. What happens when the unstoppable force meets the immoveable object? Well, now we know. Steve had eyes only for a loose ball which he wanted to head clear, but between him and this objective lay the rear of Danny’s skull. Cue what looked very much like a broken nose for Steve, and a Tweety-Pie style lump on the cranium for Danny.

As both players groggily departed, the final minute of the game meandered to an honourable draw.

Yellows 2- Blues 2

And thus to the Skinners, where the weather was (just) warm enough to drink outside. Having caught up with Andy on the subject of the afternoon’s play at Headingley, I spent most of the time outside with Liam, Mark, Simon Ink and Will discussing rekindled romance, local psychos and popular TV before things began to descend into Al Pacino and Roger Moore impressions. With Simon Gas acting as two pint pacemaker, I departed into the night before I could end up over the driving limit.

Until Friday, impending paternity permitting.

A Song for Europe

Greetings, one and all. After a one week hiatus spent watching this retro indie fourpiece at the Camden Roundhouse (still looking great, Miki!), I returned to footballing action and team selection duties last Friday. Here are your two teams, minus Andy, who was a late withdrawal following a chill which he was concerned would spread to his kidneys, (for reasons unclear):

Yellows: me, Ian Gooner, Joseph, Alan, Ed (no longer the specialist goalkeeper), Vitaliy, Peter, Tony and Mario

Blues: Paul of the Antarctic, Simon Gas, Bristol Paul, Mark, David, Yev, Liam, Danny and Alex

As the more mathematically minded of you will have spotted, that’s nine aside, or at least it was once the perennially tardy men from the Ukraine arrived.

Perhaps Andy’s late withdrawal threw the player selection system slightly off kilter, but the ensuing game ended up somewhat more one-sided than has been the recent custom, although it was no less eventful for that.

From memory, here’s your report.

A veritable smorgasbord of goals to choose from this week, with Ed bagging a brace, as did Mario and Peter. With Tony returning from injury he started in goal for the Yellows, who raced into a three goal lead before being pegged back to 3-2. Liam, making his first appearance for some time, led the line in typically vinegary fashion for the Blues, holding the ball up and generally making life uncomfortable for the elder members of the Yellows’ defence. Peter and Joseph both had monstrous games for the Yellows and their height, vim and general good play was probably the difference for the Yellows.

In terms of individual goals, the ones that stick in the mind were the more bizarre; David, in goal for the Blues, smashed an attempted clearance up Bristol Paul’s nose, whereupon the ball trickled apologetically over the line, while blood trickled somewhat less apologetically down Paul’s tabloid. Mark was also in the wars for the Blues – he and Ed clashed in a symphony of arms, knees and whoops-a-daisies and Mark ended up with a nasty looking black eye-in-waiting and a foggy head. No blame assigned to Ed, incidentally.

Another strange goal saw Alan, I believe, deliver what can only be accurately described as a leg break; the ball pitched somewhere outside the left hand side of the post (or the goalkeeper’s leg post, if you will) and swerved vindictively to creep inside and into the goal. Shane Warne himself would have been proud.

Ed’s goals for the Yellows were altogether more conventional – and well-taken, the one which springs to mind seeing him pass the ball calmly into the far bottom corner.

As for the Blues, Alex was typically combative and generally excellent in midfield, while Yev struggled manfully both for some fitness and to support Liam, although I am fairly sure he ended up with at least one goal.

Liam had a superb chance to make it five goals for the Blues with the final kick of the game, but having been put through one-on-one his curled shot hit the post and bounced out of play.

Final score: Yellows 9 – Blues 4

And thus to the pub. Another decent turnout this week, with talk of the end of the football season, including Manchester United’s inability to factor in London traffic when approaching away games in the capital, a double shooting in Ian Gooner’s East End manor and Paul’s prospective magnum opus of twentieth century life.

Given that it was the Barnet sage’s fifty-eighth birthday he marked the occasion by buying all and sundry some delicious single malts; as a consequence I can’t quite recollect the final hour of conversation before making the journey home.

Just a quick word about the end of the Premier League season – how on earth Tottenham contrived to lose 5-1 to a wretched Newcastle team that was already relegated and reduced to ten men is quite beyond me, but it was certainly very funny (sorry, Tony and Peter). I’m also slightly concerned that Sheffield Wednesday may come up – I can vividly recall seeing Arsenal relegate them at Highbury many years ago and my overwhelming memory of that night is that I wouldn’t have to hear that damn band of theirs again. Surely they’ve got rid of it by now?

Until Friday!

And Leicester!

Dear Blog Readers,

Following yet another sickness related hiatus I returned to the football fray on Friday and even more excitingly for you the reader, this means back to blog action. Here goes…

The Gas Man pinged on no fewer than twenty names last Friday morning and here’s what my Player Attributes Selection System (PASS) ™ came up with –

Blues: Geoff, Steve, Simon Gas, Ian Baggies, Mark, Nick, Ed, Yev, Tony and Ross

Yellows: me, Bristol Paul, Joseph, Paul of the Antarctic, Alan, David, Charlie, Danny, Mick and Alex

With David, Yev and Mick all arriving late, the first few minutes were slightly chaotic. This sense of confusion was compounded by Bristol Paul donning the wrong bib, which mean that the Yellows kicked off with three players fewer than their opponents. The Blues duly made hay by taking a two goal lead – the first came after the Yellows had not one, not two, but three opportunities to clear the ball but still contrived to present Tony (I believe), with a goal. Paul then realised he was given a yellow bib in order that he could play for the Yellows, and with Mick and then David gradually arriving, a more stable and balanced game settled into place.

There are quite a few goals to record – fourteen in all – so apologies in advance if your particular score is lost in the ensuing blizzard of goals.

Alan and Charlie both bagged hat-tricks for the Yellows as they overcame their early adversity to steam into the lead. Alan had a great game, playing box to box and providing some clinical finishing while linking up with Alex and Charlie in midfield. The former was also on the scoresheet, nodding home from a corner, with Paul of the Antarctic chalking up an assist by lurking on the goal-line and ensuring that the ball bounced gently into the Blue net despite the attentions of their defenders.

For the Blues Ed, Nick and Ross provided all the running, with Tony adding some guile in midfield. However, following a clash of heads with Alex at a corner Tony left the field – as, briefly, did Alex – and this setback well and truly did for the Blues, as the Yellows took full advantage of their admittedly narrow numerical advantage.

From memory, Charlie swooped to head in at the far post from a corner, Danny slotted home a penalty past Ian Baggies after Simon Gas had unceremoniously upended him on the way through to goal and Steve scored an extraordinary own-goal by adding some fierce topspin to a bouncing shot in a manner which wouldn’t have been out of place at The Crucible. One of Charlie’s other goals came from close range and his hat-trick arrived through a composed finish which saw him turn one way and then another before calmly planting his foot to push to ball home into the right hand corner. Alan’s first goal saw him slot home past Geoff in goal via a pass from Alex, while his other two were a header and a real poacher’s finish that saw him force the ball over the line after Ross had parried Danny’s initial shot.

A word for Joseph, too, who may not have scored but provided a number of goal-saving interceptions and cruised around in midfield with all the grace and élan of a Trans-Atlantic passenger liner.

The Blues did manage to get a few goals back toward the end of the game to add a sheen of respectability to proceedings; Ross, Ed and Tony all got one goal each while Yev managed to grab a brace, (once he’d finished changing, that is).

Final score: Yellows 9 – Blues 5

And thence to the pub. Yev, Simon Gas, both Pauls, Alan, Steve and Geoff all made it down to The Skinners and topics of conversation included my apparent resemblance to Tyson Fury (thanks, Yev), which is possibly the worst thing anyone has ever said to me, a prospective bike ride to Cambridge, who will finish higher next season: Arsenal or Chelsea, the pub itself and, of course, Leicester City.

And the final words this week must really go on them, particularly Claudio Ranieri who was dismissed as a ‘loser’ a few years ago, but has since provided glorious evidence that you don’t need to be a preening narcissist with a blazing personality disorder and a billionaire sugar daddy to win the Premier League. Leicester’s own fiscal affairs haven’t been squeaky clean over the past few years, but you would have to be extremely churlish to argue against the Foxes’ triumph being the most remarkable story in the history of British sport. Imagine Jamie Vardy at the Nou Camp next season. Incredible. 

Cultural appropriation?

Back in the old routine this week, as we inch inexorably closer to the sixteenth Summer of the twenty-first century and this watery planet continues on its eternally spinning axis.

Here are your two teams:

Yellows: Ian Gooner, Simon Ink, Ed (NB: specialist goalkeeper not in goal), Charlie, Mick, Mario, Aland and Yev*

Blues: Andy, me, Simon Gas, Joseph, Danny, Patrick, Antonio and Ross

*(never showed up)

As you can see, the game should have been eight aside, albeit with the Blues having a distinct advantage given that it was actually eight v seven. Sadly, it never quite turned out like that. I had one of those games in defence that makes me wonder whether it would be best for all concerned to focus on the pub afterwards and eschew the actual game; an attempted pass across the goal squirted off my foot and into the path of the delighted Mario, who promptly gobbled up the chance to make it 1-0 to the Yellows.

However, Andy quickly got the Blues back on terms with the first of three vulture’s goals from all of about three yards before more defensive mayhem let the Yellows back in – I  can’t quite recall the details, although I know it was either Mario or Alan profiting from the error. At this stage Danny trotted out of nets and I took his place, eager to make amends for the earlier blunder(s). With the game poised at two-all, Charlie received the ball via a cut back from the by-line from Mario and performed a bewildering manoeuvre that completely bamboozled me in goal – the ball popped up from his foot and looped over my head as I attempted to work out what had happened, before it apologetically pitched on the line and nestled in the net. Charlie subsequently admitted it had been something of a fluke.

With the goal scoring following a kind of basketball rhythm at this stage the Blues carried on regardless, with Andy completing his hat-trick by meeting a centre and bundling home past an injured Mick. With the Blues contemplating making a switch, having played with a man advantage for the first thirty minutes, their concentration evaporated and a series of highly avoidable goals followed - Ross picked up a backpass from Danny and Mario capitalised from the ensuing (indirect) free kick, and the remainder of the Blues’ seven goals came from a promising looking Italo – Hibernian strike force of Alan and Mario. To provide just the one example, Mario found Alan with a deft cutback from the byline when the ball looked to have gone out and Alan made no mistake with his finish. The lack of belief from the Yellows was all too indicative of a below par performance.

Patrick did get another Yellows goal; a tight angle finish careering in off the post and nudging a spare ball tucked inside the post in the manner of a man freeing up a loose red midway through a large break at the Crucible. I think that Antonio got the other Yellows’ goal.

Final score: Yellows 7 – Blues 5. 

Congratulations to the Yellows.

And so to the pub, where a reasonable turn out debated the whys and wherefores of a possible Brexit, what I understand is called “cultural appropriation” via dodgy hairstyles (see above), what’s left of the Premier League “title race” and the potential for impending fatherhood to impinge on Friday night football. On this week’s performance I’d say it was more likely that a tap on the shoulder from Simon was more likely to bring down the curtain on a man’s career than a new baby. Oh, and one of the many buxom barmaids in the Skinners said that she’d got her chest all sticky in the course of that evening’s shift. Probably the highlight of my evening, at any rate.

The Goalkeeper Who Never Was

The much vaunted – and now publically available, to Alan at least – Jarvis Algorithm for team selection took a break this week, as Simon Gas picked the sides owing to me being away from a computer all day. 

Here’s what the main man came up with:

Blues: Simon Gas, Peter, Michele, Danny, Andy, Ed (NB: not in goal this week), Mark, Tony, Paul, me

Yellows: Steve, Alex, Joseph, Geoff, Simon Ink, Ross, Ian Baggies, Mick, Antonio

The game got off to a roaring, effervescent start which never waned until the final whistle. Michele had two good chances to put the Blues ahead after being put through one-on-one via passes from yours truly, but on both occasions was unable to find a way past Simon Ink in goal. Alex was the first goal-scorer, for the Yellows, with a typically surging run through the midfield capped by a fine goal, the Potteries Dynamo passing the ball calmly into the bottom right hand corner. 

In what was always a fiercely competitive game, clear-cut changes were relatively few and far between, but the Yellows made the best of them, with Simon Ink bagging a rare brace with two poacher’s finishes from close range. I believe both came from kerfuffles at corners. The Yellows’ midfield proved decisive on the night, with Alex back to his very best form and Antonio having one of those evenings where it proves virtually impossible to dispossess him – time and again he chested down balls which fell like stones from the sky and effortlessly pinged them on to either Alex or Joseph in midfield or onto Ross. 

With Steve agriculturally clearing anything which hove into view and the Blues getting bogged down trying to regain possession, Michele was ploughing something of a lonely furrow up front, but he had a splendid game nevertheless. The Blues were able to get on the scoresheet – Mark scored what was arguably the goal of the game with a left footed finish that he steered into the corner from just outside the area. And Ed, making a rare appearance outfield owing to a bashed thumb, also scored a good goal, swivelling and volleying into the top corner from a similar distance to Mark’s earlier effort.

With the game poised at 3-2 to the Yellows came the major talking point of the game. The Blues won a corner and in the ensuing melee Geoff ‘saved’ a goal-bound effort. Apparently he had swapped ‘keeping responsibilities with Antonio between the corner being awarded and taken, but it all seemed a bit of a rum do and after the game in a fit of conscience Geoff admitted it should have been a penalty kick. 

Clearly, Geoff’s stop-start acting career has taken on a new lease of life, with the Finchley Aesthete playing the role of his life – The Goalkeeper Who Never Was. Stanislavski would be proud.

With the Blues unable to get an equaliser we finished at 3-2 to the Yellows, but all things considered it was a highly debatable final score. Just a quick word for Tony this week, who I thought put in an excellent shift in goal and more generally at the defence for the Blues.

To the pub! Not a high turnout this week, but we did have enough people present to debate a) an Ugly Current World Football XI, (hello Frank Ribery!), b) the moribund state of guitar music, never better illustrated than with the fact that the guitarist in The Maccabees augments his income by delivering guitar lessons Tony’s son and c) the relative merits (or not) of Shane Meadows, Quentin Tarantino and the Coen Brothers. The evening left with North London’s leading thespian epically procrastinating ahead of an abortive attempt to attend a leaving do that he didn’t want to go to. Presumably he went away to ponder his motivation.