After 90 minutes of well rehearsed tomfoolery and general abandonment on Thursday at training, with the Bailiffs in attendence, the scene had been set for what could be the biggest sting in the history of swindles and dirty dealings. The boys were mediocre at best during shooting practice and far worse at all other times… the Bailiffs must have been quaking in their plimsoles. Sunday came and lo and behold it wasn’t at home. The lads prepared by general curry and bitter consumption on Saturday night on the belief that White Wickets had toilets worthy of their collective crap. After a good old fashioned pebble dash the lads were down to fighting weight and ready to go. “Right then boys” said Camo in his deepest voice yet, “we’re gonna start with the team from last week”… cue much confusion, piss taking etc until a cold hush fell over the room. “Yes, you got there finally, I’m playing myself up front again”. Steve started crying at the impending centre half position again and Mick picked up the flag. Happy days.
The match kicked off, and remarks on the website and by word of mouth from the Ginger And Young Looking Oppression Resistance Dynasty (or GAYLORD) had clearly started to get through, with Petey Gouge being involved on the third kick of the game. Now that was over, the lads could surely go back to the tried and tested formula of G.I.T. (Ginger? Ignore Them!) that had been so successful over the past few weeks. It soon stopped and down the right the ball went. Seven minutes in, a hefty ball miskicked by Brew found itself at the Pirates hoofs. A quick hornpipe distracted his marker and inside he popped and smacked the ball across the goal for Laan to tap in, but wait he’s shot and shiver me timbers in it went. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, one nil to the Vale. The Difference took out his frustration at right back with a good natured rant.
Off kicked the Bailiffs, seemingly deflated by the wind being knocked out of their otherwise buoyant performance. Some football in the middle of the park was gobbled up by the defence, Steve muttering under his breath every time he lamped the ball up to Camo. A quick corner by the Bailiffs was cleared, somewhat shakily and the rebound dropped to Jesus, whose shot was neatly pocketed by the Sofa. The defence sheared itself back up, midfield dug a little deeper and the forwards… well… stood about a bit, Camo did some floating. Then Matt was fouled in the middle of the park. An uncharacteristic display of hissy fitting erupted from the lad, as he turned and did a comedy running on the spot to aim a punch at the trixy little Bailiff who’d nibbled at him. The scene quickly dissipated when it was explained he’d have lost the fight. The ball was put on the deck and Matt eyed up his target. No not the soft top Audi in the carpark, the goal. Anyway, trajectory was calculated, adjusted for windspeed, ball pressure and recalculated. Bored of waiting, Brew ran a full fifty yards (Stattler – His longest run in a non-AWOL moment) and wellied the ball goalwards. The ball was going well wide but luckily Laan absorbed most of the force into his gut and it dropped at his feet. A quick rocket was deflected wide but Danbo was there in a flash and from two yards out and ten yards wide the boy only spanked the ball into the roof of the net. 2-0.
And off they went again, the lads were chuffed to pieces, it was all too easy, fifteen minutes in and two up. “Still nil nil lads” reminded Gougey, keen to confuse. The Bailiffs were clearly concerned. A ball went out for a goal kick and Andy ambled after. “Stop the watch ref, they’re timewasting”. Bits and bobs came and went, Laaner shooting over, Camo shooting over. Brew had another free kick and fizzed it goalwards, (Stattler – Clocked at over three hundred and twenty three miles per hour, the fastest projectile in peace-time Britain) at ankle height, only to see it miss the goal by two inches. “Had it covered” admitted the clearly brilliant Bailiff keeper, playing well below his standard just for the hell of it. Pedro went on a uncharacteristically smart run, Gougey laying it outside for the mopster. A quick run into the box, one two with Laan clearly shouted to instruct Pete where to run, one on one with the keeper, oh god he’s going to blam it. The keeper came out, went to ground and Pete, (little dink that’s all it needs) in such an unashamed and blatant act of ass kissing, squared it to Camo. Camo promptly popped it into the open net and quickly went on his knees to thank the left back in the time honoured way. But no, the flag was up and the goal quickly disallowed. Pedro put his pride back into his shorts and began the long trudge back to defence.
The Bailiffs had a bit of pressure then got a corner. It went short, the cross came in and Pedro headed it up into the air. Brew got under and flicked the ball neatly back to the keeper. Out it went and straight back it came, and ended up giving the Bailiffs another corner. The Valeans knew the score, they’d received their scripts in the post three weeks previously and had had all Christmas to rehearse. Pete closed his eyes, Steve ran around in circles, Brew moaned at Stu who moaned at Dan who moaned at Matt. The ball came over and a free header set the ball in motion towards the goal and despite Pete’s best efforts at the disco dancing near post block, all he could do was dance away his tears as it sailed in. 2-1.
Get it together lads come on. The Vale kicked off and decided to use the left wing again. It seemed the Vale had had a change of heart over Mr Gouge, perhaps there was a twinge of guilt, perhaps a personal situation has reminded them of the sanctity of friendship and kinship, regardless of race, colour or creed, or perhaps it was the fact that Mick was relegated to the bench and the Ginger / Normal balance had been restored… and so the ball was wanged down the left hand side for Gougerella to chase, and chase he did. Pressure started to mount and the lads actually started switching the play, back down the right, then Brew would hoof it down the left with sublime cross-field magic. Then a break down the right left Gerry in space. A quick squared ball came to Laan, who dropped in a poor rendition of the Elvis, sans “ah wella wella wella” before slotting onto his left foot and drilling home like the expert team of drillers who drill the meteor in Armageddon… made me cry that… at the end, when he says he gonna break his promise… (sniff). 3-1.
Brew got a ball in the nuts, everybody laughed, and the ref blew for half time.
Half time, good stuff all round, the lads looked rather jaded but still full of the pith and vitality needed to send this game off to bed with no supper m’lad. Out they came for the second half. Off kicked the Bailiffs and as they started to push on, the Vale just shut up shop, then quickly opened the shop up again and bombed back up the Bailiff end on the counter attack. It was fairly end to end stuff with the lads keeping it tight until a ball was slipped through from the edge of the box, finding a striker unmarked. Although pressured by the defence “bet you can’t kick it over from there” the slippery little bugger slotted home. 3-2.
Determination crept over the Vale. Extra gears were found, reserves of energy uncovered and extra gusto erm eaten? Camo, not up to the challenge, subbed himself off for Mick and seeing as Stu’s not the best footballer in the world, decided he wasn’t up to it either. On came Italian import hero Mezzone. And so the deluge started. The Mickster got involved from the off, getting the ball outside of the box and letting loose a shot that could only be rocket propelled. Shocked by the apparent power of the strike, the Vale were stunned for a few minutes. It emerged after the game that Mick had fractured his tibula in the process… and several of his ribs. Then down the left it went, Gougey still getting the ball and winning a throw in. Over it went, Dan attempted to head the ball down his shirt in order to score Big Daddy style, but failed and it dropped to Alex’s feet. The boot came out at a right angle to toe poke the ball on the half volley. Off flew the ball, nearly decapitated the keeper, before swooping back round, through someone’s legs and ending up in the top corner. Cracking goal ruined by the gymnast’s dismount / Jesus on the cross celebration. 4-2.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. 10 minutes remained and as far as Steve and Pete were concerned, the Vale were only one goal in front and the defence had to hold fast to prevent the Vale from throwing away points, something they could ill-afford after the Christmas points fiasco (something to do with Camo drunkenly coming on to Ernie Pike’s missus). Brew threw in the flying Morecombe and Wise to clear a ball, Danbo booked his place in the netherworld by kicking the ball into Jesus’ nose, Gerry nearly got took out by a knee high Brew motivational tackle on the Bailiff’s left mid, Steve and Pete apologised about clearing, failing to clear and apologising. Andy squared up to the Bailiff attack and yelled “more!”. Cross came in, Andy’s up, scoff, “More!”, left wing comes in, Andy’s at his feet scoff scoff, “ofm ofm More!” Another cross and another and another, “ofnn ofnn orfnn MORE!! FEED ME! COME ORNNN!”. And then the whistle went, leaving Andy hungry for more but he would have to wait. The result and the Vale’s appetite for the game was mirrored in the best pub turnout for a post match event in the Mighty Vale’s long and illustrious history, a 92.3% hit rate for players and a whopping 15 people, including a girl! Next week home to the Celtic.
The Nibbler.
