“A land of meanness, sophistry and mist.
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain.” George Gordon Noel Byron (1788–1824)
The soft fog wrapped around the team bus as it pulled onto the hallowed Mighty Vale home ground, wheels spinning in the mix of mud and mulch. As the doors cranked open the players stepped into an ethereal arena, engulfed in silence, with strange shapes forming and disappearing at the limits of vision. There was a strange lingering smell in the air, adroitly identified by Mick...
”There be pikeys in these parts, recent too, I’d say last four or five hours, you can tell by the tracks here, and here’s depression caused by a sovereign ring.....”
“If the sun didth risen this morning, it did so not gazing on this foul land.” Matt Simpson (1987 - )
The opposition appeared out of the gloom and were duly directed to the away dressing room, and the Vale made busy getting the nets up and the like. From the halfway line the posts could be seen so the game was on, but the fog was cold, and mean looking, with big teeth and blood stained fur. Many of the squad had been celebrating Mr. and Mrs. Fudge’s wedding day last night, the Gaffer was nursing bern and wife, Googere had been summoned to the HQ of GI5, the specialist government anti terrorist ginger based secret service following the world ginger biscuit crisis, and Simmo was missing in action following a night on the pop in Brum.
The Stand in gaffer’s arse began to twitch, tough choices would need to be made, like who he could call to try and get eleven strong men, or at least eleven stinking like a pub cellars floor beings. He promptly shat himself outside the changing rooms.
To have views, faith, beliefs, one needs a backbone. This great bully of a universe overwhelms me. The stars make me cower. I am intimidated by the immensity surrounding my own littleness.” W.N.P. Barbellion (1889–1919)
The opposition filed out in well drilled unison as the Vale cowered in their leaking shed, peaking through twitching curtains, phone calls were made in the search of willing legs, but answer machine messages can’t play football. With 9 men things were look grim, the ref blew his whistle to summon the skippers but all that could be seen of the Vale was a cold, grey shed with the door locked, and some strange grunting from inside.
Suddenly through the swirling fog a faint sound, from far away, a horn..? There! Again, its closer, travelling at speed, coming this way, wait, its....yes it is! Excitement now in the changing room and the door was hurriedly unbolted as now the noise tooted again and there was no doubt, it was the Horn of Brewtasia. The Shite looked nervous, then ran round in circles, then scattered into the fog, and suddenly bursting through the parting curtains of gloom there shone a bright light, and on board his mighty steed Stuknottian it was the return of Brew, his taught muscles rippling below his warm overcoat, his skilful fingers revealed from within the leather riding gloves and with a sharp click Stuknottian was magically transformed into Stu Knott, who lo, had also returned. “I bring word from Helms Deep that Simmo is on his way, so lets get this bally show on the road and give these bounders what for, ey chaps?” said Brew, and as one the Vale morphed from decaying corpses into, once more, the Mighty Vale, ready for another footballing adventure.
As soon as they strode onto the playing surface the ref called for the game to be started.
“What’s the rush ref?”
“It’s a bloody cup game init, and that means it might go to extra time”
“Extra whatey?”
Toss was lost, game kicks off. And so twas a tight affair. Nip and tuck, back and forth, in and out, up and down, on and on, blah blah blah, that was for the first 30 seconds, when the ball suddenly broke into space in front of Micky Smith, fresh and keen he launched forward, accelerating a rate of change similar to that of caterpillar in pupae, as his team mates assessed the odds.
“I’d put that as a 50/50 ball, what say you Gerry?”
“50/50? Come on Laan, I reckon its more 60/40 to the Celtic lad”
“Mick only goes for them when there 80/30 in his favour!” shouted Stu.
“Interesting that” commented Alex “this could be painful”.
CRUNCHboohoo was the sound. And wee Micky blue-eyes was on his arse nursing a very sore ankle shin general area, with a ridiculously large protruding swelling at the back of his calf – nope, that’s OK, he’s tucked his bollock in his sock.
Mick waited for everyone to get cold again, then got up and carried on playing.
And so the game proceeded. Lexy on the left was much improved, ball on the floor, laying it off, Simmo and Dan were challenging in the middle and Doofy and Pirate upfront looked promising in this there first outing as a couple. But the stars were the back for, marshalled by the Mighty Brew, backed up by Corporal Smudge and his lighting pace with Privates Pom Pom and Difference mopping up the juices of the freshly minced horse meat. And what a tight line they played, with possibly more offsides than the rest of the season, and if you read this Celtics, you were off, every time, by miles, we suggest you stopping playing lasses up front – they must be lasses because they don’t understand the offside rule.
Danbo and Matt took the opportunity for some dribbling practice and ran round in circles in the middle of the park taking on countless man before getting kicked, and in the interest of playing the advantage(?) the ref let them do it. But comment should be made on Dan’s passing – simple balls were played at knee height, men in space were met with balls at pace from outer space, and on numerous occasions Dan passed to payers on different pitches, sometimes in different counties. In a vain attempt to justify this the flipper wearing twat mumbled something about being visionary like Peter Beardsley – as pointed out by the Sofa “Yep, you do look like a kipper jawed bastard.”
Half chances came and went, but nothing bad enough worry the in laws, perhaps the pick fell to Mick on the edge of the box with and advancing keeper he went for the lob which would have gone in except for the injury already suffered and if said lob had gone in then truly a spiffing goal said lob would have been. The defence stood firm against some mediocre pressure, and resolutely held strong against some testing corners, and the whistle blew for half time.
“A divided orange tastes just as good.” Chinese Proverb (circa 4000 BC)
There were no oranges to eat at half time. Mick’s ankle disintegrated, so hasty changes were made, pirate onto the left, Alex up front, Thommo on the right, OK lets go.
“The Chinese are often right, but no oranges taste like shite.” Richard Thomas (1973- )
Second half and Matt started the ball rolling by timing a header perfectly to totally poleaxe their man in the middle, turning with a wink and a grin to the back four. Stu did some dozing down the right linking up with twinkle toes Thommo for some quality ball in da box, and Laan continuing his dedicated graft chasing scraps up front and blaming the rest of the team if the opposition had the audacity to put in a tackle because “Where was the shout of man on..?”
Half way through flipper boy once again kicked the ball off the pitch, but sportingly went and fetched it for the Celtics. As he approached the line they quickly took the throw further up the pitch, Lann bleated, they broke down the right wing, in behind the back four, cross comes over, Andy thinks and stays, Knotty feels hands in the back, ball drops to a man unmarked on the back and its there. Shit the bed the Shite have scored. The Vale were caught napping, with there panties down round there ankies.
Looking back at the Vale one would think after the effort excreted to date going 1 down might have seen a few chins on chests, but nay, they snarled and bristled, and the game restarted. Not long before the ball was at the feet of Danbo in the middle, the Vale duly retreated to defensive formation expected another atrocious pass but he found Gerry on left, composed the Pirate rattled his cutlass in its scabbard and walked round the defender, squared to Laan who turned, back to goal pulled the trigger and found the bottom left corner. That was easy. Same again please.
More action at both ends and the game was hotting up. The Celtic’s Skinneyman, Gingeypops, and Greyhead at the back raised the temperature with some interesting challenges which the Vale replied to with flair and audaciousnessability. Brew and Tanman from the opposition went for a 50/50 with such might and venom the ball died. Much to the dismay of his team mates Danbo attempted the backheel nutmeg on Greyhead inside the penalty area, and with a 1 in 90 hit rate rather flukeily pulled it off as the balls rattled betwist the old man’s ankles. Inspired by this high risk / small return strategy The Sofa got in on the act, dropping his shoulder to waltz round the striker on the edge of his box, and Brew too enjoyed showing off his tricks at last man. Pedro produced a rather sexy slidingkeeptheballin, albeit a bit pointless, Gerry cut in from the left wing to let rip some Pirate Power on his favoured right peg (leg) and before long the Vale realised they were having so much fun they’d forgotten to score, and the game went to extra time. Shag me sideways, the first time in Vale histoire. Now we’ll see what they’re made of.
“I was tired of being a woman,
tired of the spoons and the pots,
tired of my mouth and my breasts,
tired of the cosmetics and the silks.” Anne Sexton (1928–1974)
The boys were tired. But so were the Four legged Green and White shite, game on.
And only 2 minutes in and sacre bleu wee man Simmo cut in from the right wing, mazy, he’s oh so mazy, no, he’s lost it, Danbo went over to try to help but Simmo screamed, Dan dived for cover, Simmo spanked the ball high and curling into the mists of time and space, some might say timespace.....“Shitshitshitshitshitno its in YEEEEEAAAAAAASSSSSSSS!” And indeed the keeper had lost it in the aerosol and the ball had plopped over his head.
Wit the well disciplined defence surely this was in the bag, keep it tight, maybe snatch another, and so it was for the remainder of the half. The teams swung round, and away again, glycogen depleted lactic acid saturated muscles powered the limbs that powered the bodies up and down the pitch, chasing, working, toiling, but there was a difference between the teams, one was winning. More pressure from the Vale saw Flipper sky a good chance, Brew produce a Mighty over head kick in a crowded opposition box but they can’t score if they don’t get the ball, and as the shots rained in the Hoss keeper Dana got more and more cheesed off risking twisted joints and broken glass fetching the ball from the tip behind the goal.
And from nowhere the Horse made one last gasp charge, the flag stayed down, they skipped round Smudge, Pom Pom cut across to challenge but the game had took its toll, and the Celtic despatched a precision shot from a narrow angle from the left into the far corner past a diving Sofa. Arse.
More Vale pressure couldn’t snatch another winner, even though the last one didn’t actually prove to be the winner, but until the equaliser was scored would technically be classified as such until said time, and with the final throw of the dice Brew pulled back on the edge of the box, the forwards defended a small pocket, the ball came back and the Brewmeister despatched the perfect Perfect 10 Johnny Wilko stylee drop goal high high over the posts and far away to a magical place called Pixie town.
As the final whistle blew, not accustomed to this sort of thing the tabs came out and the Valeacians set off to get the nets down.
“Its penalties you bunch of Goons” said Sophie.
The troops were lined up, and the skipper looked each of the battle weary heroes in the eye (with the exception of Stu who was hiding in a shopping trolley) for sign of weakness, fear, or dysentry. Some stood down, still heroes none the less, just of slightly lower stature, some looked back with rattlesnakes in their eyes, and so Brew, Alex, Laan, Gerry and Flippy Skippy were named for the shootout.
Brew – bang! Seasoned pro, pick that out Haircut 100.
Celtics – bang! Poo
Alex – lot of pressure on the young man, he stepped up to the plate, oooo saved. Hit the shower loser.
Celtics – Whoops a daisy over the bar.
Laan – Dispatched. Easy.
Celtics – Snuck in to Andy’s left.
Gerry – Composure, confidence, eye patch, parrot, kickboxed into the corner.
Celtics – Goal
Danbo – Gave the keeper the eyes, keeper ignored it, Dan aims bottom corner, flips it at a comfortable height, hand to it, top spin kicks in, over the line. Played for and got.
Celtics – Goal – boring
“Death, the most dreaded of all evils, is therefore of no concern to us; for while we exist death is not present, and when death is present we no longer exist.” Epicurus (c. 341–271 B.C.),
Sudden death.
Thommo – he’s used to a higher standard, eek. Saved.
Celtics – Goal.
Stuey reappeared “Can I take one?”
And so they celebrated like they’d won the Cup, for they had won an arduous battle indeed won they had. But football purists say winning on penalties sucks, so this goes down as a draw. And as they Vale trudged away, supportively cuddling and stroking each other, they still smiled inside, for they had played part in a wonderful spectacle, they had played, and had lost, but were not beaten, and every Vale fibre knew the Cup is a waste of time and lets see you in the league Shite Horse Celtic.
The Gobbler
