I woke up in a strange bed with a dusty head. The smell of strange fragrant oils filled the air, and my mouth felt like the inside of a sea otters pocket – dry, furry, and slightly salty. I struggled to clear my head, ignoring the other naked bodies draped over the pit, as I removing greasy items from my person. I stood and stretched, kicked a couple of empty bottles of cheap firewater whiskey under the bed, and pulled back the curtains. As the sunlight burst in there was a chorus of groans, and glancing back the room writhed as I caught the last few limbs cowering back betwixt crusty sheets.
Where am I….what the hell happened last night….when was last night? It must be Monday, for me to wake up feeling this shit the only thing that could make it worse would be to have to go to work. Still, the sun’s shining, I’ve got the day ahead of me, maybe its not so bad. A quick walk to the Secret HQ to freshen up, and I’ve actually got a strange feeling of fulfilment…around my bottom region...? Anyway, onward and upward, Corpus Dieum and all that….
And then I remembered, it hit me like a broken arrow, the flashbacks, the drugs, the booze, the debortuary, and worse….not what I’ve done…..why I did it. Shitter’s ditch – its bloody Sunday, and I’ve drawn the short straw, its Cup Weekend and I’m watching the Vale. The depression kicked me in the small of the back, knocking me forward as I retched and brought up the bitter taste of my stomach lining in the corner of the room. A cold sweat drenched my back and forearms. The plan had been to reach the state of oblivion and either miss the match completely, or to be so wasted I could have been reporting on the Shropshire Biannual Feather Dusting Championships and have found it interesting. But that’s conditioning for you. Years of training, working 24/7, sniffing about in the gutter for half a lead, you just can’t switch it off. Once a journo, always a journo. My mind might be chasing technicolour zombieghosts on the distant Ba-ch-znach Plains of Ragoon, but routine had made my body, nay my soul, sleep with one eye open, and at this point I knew there was no point fighting anymore, no matter how bad the next 90 minutes would be, I knew I would cover the game. I looked at a man 20 years older than me in the cracked mirror, greased his hair across his forehead in the British Standard side parting, picked up my Spotter’s Jotter and left the home changing rooms.
But why the fear? Why the loathing of what previously I had found amusing, pleasurable, even titillating? Well the Mighty days are no more. The fine physiques of eleven rippling torsos striding out in tight formation, wearing the Vale shirt with pride, the adulation of the crowd, the cars, the money, the girls…all this was a distant memory. The rag tag skeletons limping onto the pitch this morning in their threadbare faded kit were unrecognisable from the graceful athletes of yesteryear. 1 point from 12 against some of the worst opposition they had ever faced. Disgraceful. They don’t deserve to wear the shirt. But then who would wear the shirt? The youth system had collapsed, the scouting team had departed. And its cup weekend. Despite their previous flashy escapades on the pitch playing pundit friendly attractive footy, the boys had always had a phobia in the knockout competitions, and trust me, the stats don’t lie – the Mighty Vale have never won a cup game.
So why don’t I want to report on the shower of shit? Because they truly are a shower of shit, and frankly, I’d rather stick needles in my eyes.
I take my position on the centre line, then think better of it and move down behind the Cougar – well that’s where the actions going to be. A tear falls onto the lense of my spectacles, then runs onto the old pages of the Spotter Jotter turning my scribbling into a mystical blob, then the ink runs…hold on…if I turn the book….hee hee, it looks like a fat spider…..Sorry, the Fabled Jotter, record of so many victories, so much skill, the goals, the showboats, so many memories. What happened….when did it all go so wrong….?
Camo had done his research. “They’re from the Black Country, so they’ll be playing 2 up front, one fast, one skilful. Here’s the line up, Cougar in the pegs, Flopsy, me, Smudge and Van Deferens across the back, Gougere, the Don, Simmo and Geremi, then Sav and Davidos up front. We haven’t got a hope in hell, so lets enjoy it. Oh, and that bloke who looks a bit like Billy Bob Thornton, estranged ex husband of Angelina Jolie, he’s the ref, and anyone gives him any shit then it’s a record £20 club fine, I mean you, you suckball wankers, and lets be positive and support each other, none of this name calling or getting on each others backs you bunch of inbred goons, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME DICKHEADS?”
And as the dew shimmered in the sunlight and the air slowly warmed, maybe its not all bad. Maybe there’s life after the Vale…..I put these thoughts to the back of my mind, and tried to concentrate on the task ahead. The opposition, Kingswinford Oak, kicked off with one, large ponderous centre forward, obviously an aerial target man, and clearly neither skilful or fast. This was clarified by the skipper when he posed the question “Are you fast or skilful?” “Duh….nope” came the reply. Fucking research my arse.
As the ball kicked off my heart raced as the Vale surged forward, desperately clawing and gouging the more powerful opposition, as if their only slight possibility of a victory was a first round knockout. Predictably it was French Winger Pierre Gougere making ground down the left and providing a bit of je n’est ce quoi qua quality ball into Sav and Laan, who frequently made something out of nothing only to get nothing. Equally Spanish import Geremi with his spray on tan and pirate earring made space down the right and put forth probing balls but all to no avail. And eventually the flurry of initial activity died, and in this dog fight between the mangy mongrel Shitzu / gerbil cross and the glossy coated muscular Doberman, the wee grotty rat creature retreated to the sheltered corner of the arena and licked its minge, spitting out splinters – the only damage done to the Mighty Oak.
And just like the turning of the tide so the opposition slowly gained the territorial advantage, then took control of the possession of the ball, slowly crept inside the Vale’s heads and psyche whispering threats of mutilation, they then took control of the Valette’s bank accounts, and forged passports and birth certificates until they had taken control of the entire teams very existence, such was there dominance. Opposition corner, ably met by Paul ‘Cougar’ Thomas with a grin and a wink for the camera, then suddenly theatrical mists swirled into his vision – droppp ittt my presscioussss, let ggooo……the voice filled his head the mists fogged his senses, “Nooo, leave me, why won’t they leave me alone, I just want to play football…”. But Tragically Paul had been assimilated submitting to the oppositions total control and as the mists cleared so the ball rolled clear of his grasp and was duly despatched into the back of the net past Flopsy, who was busy practicing his clown routine.
1-0, against a team 36 places above them in the league system, and a whole lot of 67 minutes remaining. My worst nightmares surged into my head riding in my veins on the back of the amphetamine fuelled whiskey carrying juggernaut of a hangover, and as the world spun and my stomach clenched I began to lose consciousness, staggering I clawed the air, can’t breath, I’m floating, drifting, drifting like Camo’s marking, yes, like Camo’s marking, focus Gobby, come on, hold on…and then I looked up, the light, so bright, and indeed white, I was almost blinded, then centrally from the source strode a silhouetted figure, its….no, he was taken by the Beast of Brachlagog in the legendary epic battle of ancient mages….as I fell to my knees I felt his warm hand on the nape of my neck, and the warmth spread through my body as my head cleared, the knots fled from my muscles, and it felt as if someone had popped a minty tic tac into my chops, for indeed he had. I looked into the eyes on the face on the head on the body of the only man I have truly loved, and Gandalf’s eyes smiled back. Chuff had returned. Game on.
As I stared up at him from groin level he suddenly looked somewhat uncomfortable, and to distract my attention lifted a sagely finger in the direction of the oppositions goal. I pushed my glasses up my nose a fumbled for my pencil and the jotter, as Sav stepped forward to lash in a free kick from 25 yards out to the left of the eighteen yard box. With vicious top spin the ball dipped over wall pitching just in front of the keeper, then the doozra kicked it left, keeper fumbles, there’s a red flash and its in…ITS IN! They’ve done it! The Vale have scored, it was Laan, no – he’s first to celebrate – it’s the rat boy sneaking about looking for scraps of soap to eat. Get in. Go on, eat it – eat our goal!
I looked back at Gandalf but he had turned himself into a butterfly to watch the game from above and get away from me – and cause it was windy and it looked like a laugh being a butterfly, you know, when its windy.
My head was spinning, this time with disbelief rather than chemicals as Billy Bob blew his toy whistle, and the Valesters rocked over to Camo and the Ginger Biscuit on the touch line for a squirt of water. “Now you tits, we’re doing great cause we’re enjoying it, eh, you collective lump of nobcheese shavings? Keep it up, keep the jokes going, make em laugh assholes. I’m gonna change it round. We’ve got a special boy playing today, here he is, ickle Stuey, now all say hello, what’s wrong with him? He looks a bit weird? Well that’s why he’s special, yes, that’s it, he’s played quite well so far but I’ll swap him with Geremi, why’s he playing? We got some cash from social services, care in the community and shit….right lets rock.”
The second half kicked off and I was in no need of chemical stimulants, oh no, now I was riding high on excitement, the anticipation of once more reporting on greatness, spreading the word of the once again Mighty Vale. And it wasn’t long before the tempo was raised with a bit of sneaky, deceiving lower than snake’s belly Rat Boy behaviour. Up went the runt in the middle of a park for a header, and ooooooo, nasty clash of heads. Down came Rat Boy rubbin’ his noggin, his eyes rolling around, tongue lolling. As he staggered and swayed money changed hands on the touchline as to whether he’d go down, lets face it, he’s been known to go down before know what I mean. And then came the calls...
“It’s a head injury!”
“Stop the game!”
“Kick the ball out!”
“Go down, Dan, he’s got to stop the game”
“Don’t panic Captain Mainwaring!”
“We’re gonna need a bigger boat!”
“Kick the fucking ball out!”
“Great Scott Marty – Ten point twenty one Gigawatts!”
“Stop the game!”
“Zulus.....thousands of ‘em”
“You bred raptors...?”
And in the midst of the confusion and as the opposition slowed, Geremi calmly swiped the ball, perhaps reminiscent of Marc Overmars, Arse vs Sheff Utd. circa 2001 and slotted Savo in for a one on one with the keeper and lo, the ball was calmly despatched through his stumpy legs and into the sprout bag. The Vale embarrassingly trotted back to the half way line. No one celebrated with Sav...they were shitting themselves.
Ahem. 2-1 TO THE VALE ! ? I went mental on the sidelines, and Chuff let off some fireworks from his finger tips.
The opposition went off their collective man boobs and launched a vicious tirade, not at young Sav who was hiding down a rabbit hole, oh no, and not at Spanish import Geremi with his dashing pirate good looks, oh no, but at the runty rat boy still rubbing his scalp, now standing in a considerable build up of dandruff.
A shadow was cast over not so young Rat Boy, and as he lifted his eyes he realised he was surrounded, and would have to fight his way out....or die trying. A kick to the back of his knee rocked him backwards, this followed by a large lump of green flem in his face. “You cheating scab licking monkey winnet – that was your plan all along, oh my head hurts, I’ll fall over and roll around and get everybody’s attention whilst letting my team mates sneak away with the ball and score a cheaters goal , you cheating cunt, take this you bounder....”
And from the side line all I could see was a cartoon dust ball with limbs poking out of the sounds with fighting noises emanating from within, and the Valettes watching on in amusement. I began to feel somewhat concerned for Ratty, maybe his rugged good looks and smokey but romantic eyes would be scarred, but then in true cartoon style out sneaked the Don from the back of the melee, leaving the opposition to continue scrapping amongst themselves.
The game restarted and it looked like the nastiness would continue with some heavy handed challenges and general rough stuff. With the big centre forward shielding the ball on the left wing Smudger thought he’d raise the bar and tapped his shins, resulting in some Rooney / Dallaglio style hand offs and lots of swearing. Feeling bad, and much against his nature, Steve apologised and patted his bum, but Brutus was having none of it. He tried nibbling his ear and a foot massage, but finally clinched the deal by popping down the garage and lumping for the housewife’s favourite – no, not the tongue, I’m talking flowers and chocolates.
The Ginger Biscuit, having a fantastic time running the line could see the situation escalating and was worried for his young friends on the field of battle, and decided to level the situation. Tubster from the opposition was shepherded wide by Flopsy and he deftly allowed the ball to run out for a goal kick. Ginge, reading the game like a kiddy fiddler reading stories outside a nursery saw his chance, kept his flag down and watched as the Tubster’s momentum carried him through the barbed wire fence and onto the golf course, before sending in a deep cross. The Vale watched, Steve wellied the ball into Camo’s nuts.....the opposition wellied the ball in the net.
Ginge was rather pleased with himself, but soon regretted his decision as he too was labelled a cheating cunt by the opposition following a plethora of offside decisions. The foul mouthed right winger commented on Ginge being only good for eating, so he ate him, resulting in an enforced substitution.
And before you could say Billy ate my Bovril a raking pass from the right wing found the opposition left winger’s left foot and the ball left it into the top left corner. Arse bandits. 3-2 down with 6 minutes to play...still, I’d have taken that at the start of the game, 2 goals against supposedly superior opposition, the boys done good, they can hold their heads high, and maybe this would be the kick start to the league campaign. Hell of a game boys, lets hit the boozer and talk the talk of heroes.
Under pressure, with the Oak going for a 4th, a shot is fired in and boy oh boy that’s a header, the flying ginger squirrel launched at that one and has cleared a good 125 yds to find Laan on the half way, there’s the shimmy, he considers an Elvis but instead threads the ball through to Sav who’s gone, like a whippet, challenge approaching 8 o’clock and watch him dick the defender, riding him like the donkey he is, he drifts to the left of the box, takes a spoonful of Mrs, Miggin’s patented Composure Compote and strokes that baby home. Tis three apiece, and you can hear the thud as the exhausted oppositions collective heads drop – come on lets go, just believe boys, dream a little dream, think the unthinkable.
After this it was truly a formality. The Vale played like the little men do on FIFA 2005, rolling back the years, making shapes, spanning genres, total football, soaking up the pressure and turning it against their opponents. The refs watch broke extending the second half by 14 minutes, but that just meant 14 minutes of inspiration Car Wash action down the right wing flying past the moonwalking full back at Warp factor 5 before teasing stumpy the keeper with dingle dangle crosses.
Letting the Oaks think they had the Vale under pressure, plucky Flopsy drilled a ball down the line from the corner flag to find Laan, who sipped some Asterix magic potion and set of down the wing leaving players floundering in his wake. He got to the goal line, wanged in the cross for dinky Sav to dink the dink over the keeper at the front post for his trick. That’s 4-3.
Matty kicked ass in the middle of the park dumping Tubster on his sizeable behind before playing in Laan on a sublime run, Laan pulled the Lord of the Dance, ignored Stuey’s cry of “give it me I haven’t scored yet” and slotted home. That’s 5-3.
Gougere picked the ball up deep, strolled forward wading through opposition tackles as if through a shallow pool of mating frogs, squared to Laan, quality finish from distance. That’s 6-3.
Late substitution from the Vale bought on Ellis but the damage was done, so he tempted the defender and pulled his favourite Timber move for the showboat of the game.
And the boys are there. Who cares if the opposition scored with the final kick of the game, it’s irrelevant. Tell the world Kingswinford Oak – your boys took one hell of a beating, and more importantly the Mighty Vale.....are back.
Yours,
Gobbler (in rehab)
