In the bleak mid winter...and truly it was bleak, as I watched from my secret den in the piles of dirt and scrub adjacent to the Mighty Vale home ground. As the Valeites lurched forward out of the foggy smoggy smuggy smeggy errr, fog they seemed a little depleted in numbers. Famous Vale faces were absent, oh where oh where is the French import Gougere? And the Difference? And the Gaffer, where art thou? Never mind, we’ll cope.
Hold the boat Holmes, even more importantly we’ve got no pegs to put the freeking nets up! Ahhhggrh! Panic! Everyone run around screaming random obscenities at each other while kicking a ball in unpredictable directions with big toes then walk off the pitch then back on then concede a goal in the last minute then score the winner in same last minute to win the game....(?) Sorry, not sure where that little outburst came from...flashbacks from my war years or something.
Today’s opponents The Shite Horse Celtic, or the Horse Hoops, or the Green and White Shite, whichever rolls off the tongue in your native language the most poetically. History between the two ancient clubs was one of some debate....played 1, won 0, drawn 1, lost 0, although this would no doubt be pissed at by the Hoss because they would probably try to rewrite history and claim that they won the first encounter on penalties but everyone knows that the bookies would pay out on the draw at full time and therefore it’s a draw and that’s that.
Thankfully the cavalry arrived just before kick off, said cavalry consisting of Danbo riding bareback on his thunderous steed Stuknottian snorting about the duration of the journey, bravely carrying a beautiful wench name of Shozzamuroo across its haunches and a handful of pegs in the other.
Wench was emergently (new word © The Gobbler) signed, and Gerry was seen to unscrew his peg leg and cock his eyepatch in appreciation of a new tasty bit of skirt on the Goodship Valepop. Dan won the toss for the first time this season and elected to start the game as soon as possible to avoid getting the points deducted and the club fined for a late kick off – we admire his enthusiasm for keeping administrative costs down and feel this should be officially incorporated into the club’s mission statement and general policy of Health and Safety.
Timmy Choo Choo was duly handed the flag as Mick looked on jealously, even though he’d been handed a starting shirt his love of the luminosity of the cheques was written all over his pale, freckly face as he twitched his nose like the wee ginger hamster still lodged up his arse from the previous night’s activites.
The game kicked off, and as the Vale came to terms with the selected formation with the late comers going through their warm up routines, Shite Horse Celtic promptly ran down the pitch leaving the Vale back four somewhat outnumbered 11 – 4 and put the ball in the hole. Darn it. A bit unsporting what what? Time to get up this ruffians eh? Come on Bingo, make the boundas peck the seed.
And so the Vale started playing, albeit in an unpredictably random playing like a bunch slackers manner. The starting formation was promptly switched to bring Gerry back to left mid and elevate super sub there’s on-ee one Mezzon-ee or there’s only one Mezzonlee take your pick to join Laan in Strike Force Alpha 2-0, ie. up front.
And after some long passages of drivel interspersed with some very short moments of pure garbage, 32 minutes in Geremi Ahhaa but down his flagon of navy rum, threw Polly in a defenders face, collected the ball and passed sublimely (those lime’s are important remember, vitamin C, stops the old grrr god rickets) to the Laana, who incidentally prefers Naana’s not Nann breads, and definitely not palm sheds. Anyway, he eyed up the corner of the Hoops net, looked at the keeper, decided he wasn’t the most mobile, and veritably passed the ball into the corner. Football is his best game his mam gave him a girls name La Naa Naa Na, La Naa Naa Na.
The Shite decided to get a wee bit pushy and shovey, which at first was met with shock and horror by the Vale, who are more accustomed to the beautiful game be played with almost minimal contact such is their prowess of pass and move it’s the Mighty Vale groove. However after the bloke off Midland’s today who looks a bit like Kieron Dyer’s uglier brother dropped the one handed reverse stout eye gouge incorporating the optical nerve mini claw pinch Dan reacted in customary fashion by hacking him down, momentarily forgetting that kicking the opposition results in them having what’s called a “Free Kick”, where they can kick a dead ball directly at the goal, often resulting in a scoring situation or SS.
After some handbags and chatting about smudged mascara ugly man distorted his face into possibly the lowest frown ever seen at the Vale home ground. Fortunately Dan had his back turned, but such was the intensity of donkey arse’s stare that it burnt a small hole in the skippers sock. The effect on Pedro was a little more alarming, as he dropped to the floor rolling around in apparent agony, making strange ha ha ha noises.
As the game rolled on it was apparent the meaty Hoops keeper couldn’t kick without the use of his hairy big toe, resulting in a veritable directional lottery as the kicks went short, long, high, low, bending left, right, left right, right left, the googley, the doozra and even one that was a bit droopy, all of which were seized upon by Stuey the Difference Knottmeister, which resulted in one of best barracking displays of the season by the good looking full back. Such was the intensity of his verbal assault that he took his eye off the ball, and was promptly nutmegged by the Shite’s winger, called by both winger and linesman and laughed on by the extremely sexy lady Celtic fan, who obviously wanted Stuey in her knickers.
Half time came and went, the usual points of view expressed by all parties, but with a highly personal and critical attack by Skipper on the young man Mezzone up front. The rest of the team looked on in amazement as Brothwell Snr. ranted at the cowering Lexy (4 goals in 86 minutes this season, AVFC club record), some tried to intervene, some put their fingers in their ears, some shed a wee tear, but still Danbo voiced his tirade upon the now shattered shell of Mezzone, like a sabre toothed tiger playing with a three legged blind baby wildebeest. The victimisation, nay, character assassination was, in the opinion of your loyal reporter, slightly over the top, and my prediction would be for Alex to spend his remaining years wandering the earth asking the question “Why?” and muttering under his breath “come to the ball, got to come to the ball...”
Second half, and Simmo made an attempt to get a grip of the middle of the park, unably supported by Danbo in his flippers with a tub of margarine under his arm trying to raise interest in a game of greasy naked twister.
New signing and first female footballer for the Vale Shozzamuroo was brought on to replace Alex “come to ball” Mezonne, in an attempt to bring some creativity to the forward line, and with her first touch waltzed round an oncoming Hoopy on the edge of his own box....mmm, silky.
Gingey pops the Shite’s skipper went off hurt, leaving our Ginge to run the line against his will, his tenure promptly terminated following a thread the needle ball to Brew ( ? What the fuck’s he doing up there?) on the edge of the six yard box only to blast wide and over but who was allegedly offside, not so said Ginge, you can run your own line, and I won’t be back. Despite an attempt to rally a showering of love and praise on he whose nether regions glow in the dark, but nay said Ginge (tipped by yours truly to be the next Vale gaffer....watch this space) and he off stropped.
As the game ground on the usual second half space generated as the Vale’s magic pitch gets bigger didn’t materialise, and chances for the Vale came more and more in the form of tenuous glory shots from outside of the box – the sort of thing concentrated on during training. Dan had a pop following a sharp Knotty throw, and the Hoops keeper used the novel advanced textbook approach of hanging his mighty frame off the cross bar and deflecting it to reduce the aperture of said goal such that ball sailed over, although to be fair it was going over anyway.
Simmo bought a few Lottery tickets, but all to no avail, and at the other end the Shite were being mopped up by Brew, Smudge and Andy, but as limbs got weary relationships on the pitch started to fray, and the niggling started. It looked like this game was rolling gently down the seaside road leading to the town that disappeared into the sea several years ago, the road to nowhere, and about to end abruptly in the form of a shear drop off a cliff. Never mind. That sounds quite X-treme.
Brew went walkabout trying to make things happen, ignoring the calls to stay at centre half, and following another spat and some sharp words from Stinky Mick “We don’t need you” decided the best way to help the Mighty Vale cause was to burst into tears and strop off leaving the team in confusion. Good work from Ian Mad Dog Barking Barky Barkas on the cuddle front resulted the Bruiser returning to the field of play, only to be confronted by the ref. (note: put on nerdy voice) “You have left the pitch without permission, which is an offence where appropriate punishment is a yellow card, you have returned to the pitch without permission, which is an offence where appropriate punishment is a yellow card, your socks are not pulled up, your roots are showing through your highlights, your driving gloves are out of date and correct me if I’m wrong but you haven’t cleaned the tip of your penis for 3 days, as such and therefore, hence and etcetera I am within my writes to formally issue without any right of appeal two yellows and a red, which however and hence therefore I will not be issuing if you can demonstrate to me, that is to say the aforementioned said referee of this formally previously mentioned said football game that you are cool. Are you Cool Mr. Brewin?”
“Fuck off”.
Game on.
And then it happened, no one saw it coming, least of all the skinny ginger stick insect counting down the days before he inflicts his stench on the Southern hemisphere. Simmo fed Smelly Mick, who took a touch and laid it into Laan with his back to goal, as the thick heavy clouds rolled and shifted above. Laan used his spidey sense to determine the location of all defenders and keeper with his back to goal, realised there was no chance of turning and getting the shot off, and spotted Mick stood with his finger up his arse watching the game on the next pitch, a quick shout and the ball was deftly flicked back to El Stinko. Time slowed, everyone else was frozen in silence as the ball floated through the air like a turd being dumped into a toilet full of treacle, Mick looked round and a grin broke across his face, the clouds parted, a choir of angels broke out in a glorious unison of voice, and a single beam of sunlight cascaded from the heavens bathing young Michael in God’s holy light, curing all his ailments, washing his filthy body of all his sins, well, not all of them, some where quite deeply engrained and God didn’t have any Cillit Bang, he shifted his feet (Mick that is – not God), adjusting his balance as a million neurons readied themselves to react, the smile changed to deep concentration, and as time returned to normal speed, possibly slightly fast forward, Mick’s foot came through and connected perfectly and oh my Aunty Mary did it just zoom into the top left hand corner...it does not get any better than that, and do I not like it...not.
And that was surely it. The Vale had 3 minutes plus stoppage to while away at there leisure. Should be quite easy, keep possession, soak up any pressure, maybe catch a few rays, and that was when the Shite hit them with a 6 on 3 break and scored the last goal of the match.
Despondency set in, unbelievable, and we were on for 3 straight wins. Arseholes. Deep into stoppage time and there’s not a hope in hell. Smudge was dead, a high pitched shriek after a sliding tackle was hurriedly investigated by the ref, only to find out the Steve was yelping with knackerisation, and was in fact found having a snooze. Dan moped to retrieve a ball kicked out deliberately to waste time by the Hoops who had obviously set their whole game plan around getting an away draw from the game, then half heartedly threw it Geremi’s twin brother Geri (French) who, with his chin on his chest as a result of the immediate on set of depression following the Shite’s equalizer made half a job of flicking it on. It fell to Laan, who was openly weeping such was the upset caused by the heartless Celtic goal, only to be spurred on by Shozza “If it was me I wouldn’t bother, but you could try turning and hitting it....no, I’ll shut up stupid idea”. Blinded by salty tears and frustrated with the earlier harsh critique of his favourite strike partner Lexy, Laan through sobs tried to kick the ball at Shozz, but instead it bobbled in a decidedly lack lustre manner towards the Shite’s keeper. Bounce, roll, bobble bounce, on it trickled, the keeper must have seen it late but a vain attempt to smoother ball by switching off the muscles in his legs saw the ball gently dribble past his outstretched hand, the path of the ball moving slightly closer to the goal due to the gravitational field exerted by belly. The Vale faithful sighed as the ball stopped, but the a mysterious wind buffeted the yellow sphere, the sun shone once more as photons hit the leather surface, and ball rolled against the post, one more push from the breath of God and in it went.
WINNER! Yay oh yay for the Mighty Vale, oh bless-ed are we, holy are we, for we are shone upon from above by he that is almighty.
Or maybe its lady luck, oh fickle beauty, where art thou when I was sat in Vegas?
Or maybe, just maybe, The Mighty Vale have winning instilled in their blood, when viewed holistically they are winners, and the Shite are just, well, losers? I only said maybe....
Yours,
Gobby
Attendance: 11
Report word count: 2551
