One foggy and frosty, or froggy as the weathermen call it, morning the Vale lads turned up yet again at the home pitch. The motivation was definitely lacking as he nets were shivered up in the cruel wind by the faithful few who’d made it there on time. Even normally eager Dan was looking less than enthusiastic as kick off approached as his bowels were still full. One bush and a large and quite literally steaming pile of poo later and the Vale had had it’s first home crap of the season.
The ref turned up and despite a bit of bribery and dirty tricks he still insisted on playing the match. And so the lads got changed and rumours started to leach around the changing … erm … shed? “They’ve got fine players this lot” “and buttons for arms”, “Apparently anyone’s bottom is in their league, except for pigeon chests” “And ten spots have erupted!!”. Excitement grew for the inevitable spectacle as the boys hastily donned layer upon layer of insulated thermal clothing, any exposed bare flesh subjected to torrent upon torrent of backhanded slaps.
As they trudged the three and a half miles to from changing rooms to the pitch the rumours materialised into reality, as usual the grumbling wheels of the Vale rumour mill tragically falling off yet again… Nine players, Suttons Arms, bottom of the league but for Wren’s Nest who’ve had ten points deducted. Bring it and indeed on.
Off kicked the match and the Vale went into dominance over a Sutton team playing the unorthodox 6-0-2 Flying saucer and mothership formation. The ball was neatly played around and the pace was slow as the extra men took their toll. Expansive football was replaced by making the ball do the work, with less pedestrian and more like public transport football. Down the right wing the ball would go with probing runs from the Mickster and the cross would come in but no-one there. Then a probing run from Simmo through the middle, layoff then strike , ooh just wide. Laan with a quick bit of probing, then Al probing tentatively. The Sutton boys had parted their buttocks and were on the receiving end of a good hard rogering, sans lubricant. Finally a bit of probing from Gougerella down the left and a half hearted shot left the Vale with a corner. Simmo trotted over to take and the ball floated over the top of the six centre backs and the keeper to find little Ratboy gnawing on the back post. The ball bounced off his noggin, dislodging a molar, and into the net. Startled by the cheering, Dan scampered off into the undergrowth. 1-0.
Play restarted and already the defence were getting itchy feet. One of the strikers had dropped into a covering role so now they had four on one. Pedro on the left and Geremi on the right decided to take advantage and proceeded to advance menacingly on the Sutton goal. Patience was exercised as the ball was worked up the pitch, turned around, back around the back four and up the other side. The odd darting run into the box was quickly followed with a strike but just off target. Pedro came close to popping his cherry after his balls n all blowjob he’d received towards the end of last season. He bombed down the left, a quick one-two with Laaner leaving him in acres but the shot hit the side netting… on the next pitch. Then Dan came down the left, Laan was back post and a big “BACK POST” shout was given by the said same person. A quick look up was followed by a lovely looping ball over the stranded back seven by Danbo. Laan, with plenty of time to prepare as the ball took 39 seconds to fall back to earth, tapped the ball first time to Al who banged home to increase the lead. 2-0.
The fog descended. The temperature dropped dramatically as a helicopter circling above started to falter, it’s fuel lines freezing. The ref shivered, Brothwell Senior Senior Senior’s snot saturated nostril hair formed little snotcicles and Ginge just stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. “Hey Pete,” said the substitute linesman The Difference “It’s just like that film”… “What, The Fog?” came the reply, “No, Weekend At Bernies”. Perplexed and bemused the young Brothwell could only blame Stu’s malinsulated noodle and ice raddled brain for his comments and concentrate back on the game. Mick rocketed down the right hand side, tappy tappy running all the way, even managing the same move twice in one run, one trick pony my arse. Due to his unnaturally low BMI Mick’s only hope for survival in the sub-zero climate was to continuously move at circa sonic speed, thus absorbing the energy kicked out by his sonic boom into his rectum. Reaching the by-line, he realised he had two choices… kick it out for a goal kick (low energy and usual option) or try to cross (high energy and failure rate). With Gougey, Laan, Matt, Alex, Camo, Sav, Keith, Orville and Spit the Dog in the middle waiting he was about to cross, but wait, there’s Dan unmarked and he’s reachable with the patented Smith side foot ‘shot’. The ball lolled across the box to the Cap’ns left shoe and bang. In it went. “GET IN!! YEAH!! IN YOUR FACE SUTTON ARMS I ROCK YEAH WOOO!!” came the celebration and the Vale ignored their stricken leader as the Sutton animal closed in around him. 3-0.
Heads were high. This could only end up one way and the Vale started to let it go to their heads. The Arms armies managed to get the ball a few times and the lads were slow to close them down, even giving them time to play it around and make a few half chances. Unfortunately the resistance was short lived… a clearence from the keeper, with the Vale sat well in their own half, was ‘intercepted’ by Alex and his face. The rebound fell to Laan and off he set, trying to beat the fattest player on the pitch. The Slovak struggled to get past him, despite his possessing a turning circle an oil tanker would be proud of, and the big man and Laan were toe to toe from the half way line. Finally getting a shot away Laan was brutally studied… sorry studded…. by the defender and the scream was heard by the Gobbler, three towns over at the Cookley Water Balloon festival. Laan went down with three full rotations, tears and everything until the ball trickled playfully back to him. As the keeper lay motionless on the other side of the goal and the defender some five yards away, a miracle happened. Lo and there was heavenly voices and a shaft of light and Laan was healed oh Lord. Up he sprung to slot home the fourth. Unfortunately it seemed the recovery was temporary as the next step saw him fall back on his arse rubbing his leg furiously. 4-0.
Half time came and went rather rapidly. No-one wanted to stop moving so a quick bit of back slapping and whoo hoooa hooooas belly laughs followed by a “Keep your heads on lads and do nothing stupid”. Never one to tempt fate, Andy had only two things to say…”I haven’t even touched the ball with me new gloves yet” and “let’s keep a clean sheet eh”. Oooh I don’t know why but my story sense is tingling…
The Arms kicked off yet agina and seemed to come out strongly. Rumours abound of extra players being sneaked/snuck,snook onto the pitch were rife and the bloke from Willow up front for the visitors started to get stuck in. A ball was laid through from the midfield/defence and he looked up and struck the ball from just inside the Vale half. A snoozing Sofa was awakened by the shouts from his team-mates as the ball sailed over his head into his unprotected sprout bag. Later that day, Andy could be heard to retort “I don’t care about the goal as it wasn’t my fault. I was stood in the perfect position.” Lobbed from forty five yards… make up your own minds batfans. 4-1
Was a comeback on the cards? It seemed unlikely but then we’ve been here before haven’t we? Well not here but on the old esteemed ground the lads choked it from four nil up. Andy’s comments were just what the doctor ordered, well apart from his usual assortment of drugs and medicines, serving only to wind up the team and get the blood raging again. Back on top it seemed the lads wouldn’t be happy to sit on the lead. Pedro picked up the ball from left back and started to trot. A ball inside to his uglier brother Dan was returned as the mopheaded one sling-shotted around an arms player to increase his velocity. The legs turned into a blur, the hair expanded and time-space started to distort. The Sutton defenders, clearly alarmed at the oncoming maelstrom, parted like the Red Sea and Pedro charged onwards. The mop finally reached critical volume, and, looking like a grotesque hairy beachball atop a grotesque broomstick, Pete finally let rip. Defenders and keeper alike dove out of the way in expectation but the ball skipped along the ground like a puppy… with a happy smiley doggy face. Surely it’s going to go wide and there it is, that’s the side netting bulging… but wait it’s bulging the wrong way!! It’s only bloody well gone in!! Criket! One of the last remaining Vale Vestal Virgins is no more! His cherry is popped, his bottle is uncorked and he’s in balls deep! He erupted his filthy man muck right inside her chuff pipes!! 5-1
Well, personally I couldn’t see how anything will ever top that again… ever.
Okay so I’ll continue anyway… more pressure for the Vale left Danbo on the edge of the box passing out to Mick. A dirty fould left Dan on the deck and caring Smudger yelled to kick it out. “No” said Pete “he’ll be alright the big poof, carry on”. The ball was expertly crossed in, beating the keeper again and Laan decided for the showboat trap on the line in true sporting fashion. As it trickled over the line he realised the ref has stopped play. Still time for Simmo to work some more magic. A bit of weasling in the middle of the park past three players followed by a quick cross to Dan for his hat-trick? Nope, to Laan. A quick double nutmeg shot and Laaner’s on two and apparently that’s 70 league goals for the Vale and 75 in a Vale shirt, although this naturally needs to be confirmed by the Stattler. 6-1. Have you got a tally chart on your wall at home Laan?
Two players on a hat-trick and a goal virgin de-virginisised… what more could happen? Dan had several chances for his perfect hat-trick, one where he unselfishly elected to attempt the oop-dee-over-doop-dee-doo on request from Laan and a second where the ball wouldn’t come out from under his size nines and he didn’t know which way he was facing. A quick stab with his standing foot kicked the ball out for a throw. Simmo went on yet another mazy dribble, this time crab-stylee across the face of the box and back again. After the fourth return trip someone shouted “kick him in the head” probably Camo. Then it came, the final insulting nail clumsily nailed into the poorly constructed coffin. Laan charged through the defence to the by-line and drilled the ball across… there’s a red shirt there, one yard out, who could it be… why it’s Mick of course. The ball hit Mick on the knee and bounced in from ½ a yard. Up went the hand and off he trotted in his own little world. Mick was still off celebrating in the next field as the ref signalled the 90 minutes were up…
Back to winning ways my darling, good to see. Now only two virgins remain, sprightly young Geremi, and haggard, earthy old Stu… oh and Andy… never let him take a penalty… ever.
Attendence: 11
Average temperature during match: -3°C
Average number of undershirts worn: 3
Number of gloves on pitch: 8 (including keepers)
The Nibbler.
